Steel Hearts
by three-golden-mockingjays
Summary: 'Though steel hearts are ideal for victors, not everyone has one. I sure don't. Well, not yet.' A collection of short Clato stories. Not all in chronological order, not all follow the same storyline. T for now, I don't think it will change. Wow, this is a really unappealing summary. Read anyway?
1. Jealousy

"I'm going tribute hunting," Clove announced, her face sour with jealousy, turning her beautiful complexion dark. She was sick of seeing Cato and Glimmer flirting, sick of not only being ignored, but having her loneliness flaunted in front of her. "I'm coming too," Cato called after her retreating back, but she continued to storm off, thinking that maybe if she left them, the bitter memories might fade.

"I'll come too Cato!" Glimmer held onto his arm, but Cato shook her off with a warning look in his eyes, "Stay here and look after Lover Boy. I don't trust Marvel." Clove ground her teeth, he didn't trust Marvel, but he did that airhead bimbo? What had happened to Cato's good sense and judgement? The arena affected everyone in different ways, she supposed, but was there any excuse for such blatant neglect?

"Slow down Clove!" Cato's voice echoed through the forest. "You're scaring away the tributes before we can kill them," she hissed at him angrily as he seemingly materialised by her shoulder, like a shadow that forgot to keep up. "What's wrong Clove?" he asked gently. "What kind of a question is that?" she asked scathingly, "I'm in the Hunger Games, which really isn't all it is cracked up to be, I'm frigging bleeding," she waved her arm in his face, the blood splattered across his chest, "And after everything we had, after all our history, you left me for her. 'I don't have time for relationships in the games, I have to let you go,'" she mocked in a deep voice, "Are you sure you weren't just making an excuse you shag a certain blonde?"

It was all too much for her, and she broke down in the tears that she had been holding in ever since volunteering. She sat down on a rock as the tears streamed down her face and mixed with the blood and dirt that coated her skin like a glove. The sobs racked her body, which shook as she gulped and buried her face in her hands, wanting to disappear inside of them. "You look just like you did when I first met you," Cato said softly, sitting down beside her, not sensing at all that he said the last thing Clove wanted to hear. "I look like a thirteen year old? Thanks Cato. I suppose that's why I'm not good enough for you. You need a blonde _woman_ with big boobs and a nice ass. You need her, and here I am, still needing you Cato. I do need you, I do! Remember when you used to need me too? When you used to hug me, and whisper promises to me. Where you a liar back then Cato? Because if you were, I never saw it. I believed everything you said, every promise you made to love me forever, every time I fell asleep in your arms I thought we had something special. Did you need me then like I needed you? Because you don't even give a shit about me now!"

"Oh Clover," he sighed, and wrapped his arms around her small frame, hoping that maybe, by doing this, she might be safe from all the harm in the world, but knowing deep down that nothing he could ever do could save his love. Clove did not want to feel as safe and crave his warmth and solid feel the way she did. She did not want to give in like a weakling, did not want to keep loving the boy she thought had betrayed her, did not want to be reliant on anyone but herself. After all, through all this misery and wretchedness, the one thing she did learn was not to trust others, not too swallow their lies so easily, and certainly not to savour the sweet taste of deceit. But she did.

"Clove," Cato brushed his fingers across her temple, tucking her stray and ever unruly hairs behind her ear, and repeated the action long after her face was framed by jet-black tendrils of hair, "It's an act, okay? It's for the sponsors Clover," he wiped a tear from her cheek, "It's not real." Clove shuddered again as her sobbing slowed down, and her breathing began to regain it's normal rhythm. _In, out. In, out._ "It's an act, all an act. It's not real. It's an act. You're the only girl I could ever love," Cato kept up his mantra, and his fingers continued to brush against her face. It was then, huddled in each other's arms, that they forgot about the games for a while. There was just the two of them, Clove and Cato, Cato and Clove. One being. Unconsciously, Clove's breathing adjusted once more. Now, she breathed in with Cato, and out with him too. The pulse in his wrist that she held dearly and his warm breath on her neck lulled her into a rhythm that she could have stayed in forever, encased in Cato's arms, feeling peace, and feeling loved.

**Hope you liked that! It's only my second story so constructive critism would be very much appreciated. I am probably going to add some more chapters in different Clato situations, they may not all be in chronological order, and may not all go by the same storyline. tell me what you think! - L**


	2. Beauty

Over the summer he turned fifteen, Cato perfected the art of furtive glances out of the training room windows, into the identical building next door where the girls trained. It was that summer that Clove Flare caught his eye for the first time. Well, that wasn't true, the two had been friends for the past year, in the few hours they were spared to do things that seemed as trivial to the trainers as to have friends. What good were friends in the Hunger Games? But it was this summer, when Clove turned from a girl to a woman, celebrated her fourteenth birthday, that Cato began to see her a different way. It wasn't that all of a sudden Clove had these massive womanly curves, and even if she did, that would not be her claim for attention.

It was her whole aura that changed, and all of a sudden, she seemed to glow with a strong power and pure radiance. All the kids at the academy were trained to be ruthless and have the sort of morals that Hitler went by when he went on a mission to wipe the world of the Jewish people. After all, whoever decided to train these children to die must have used that rule book too. Clove's power seemed different, in a way. Cato had caught her several times doing things that academy kids shouldn't be caught doing. One day, for instance, she stood up for a kid who was getting bashed up by his fellow classmates. Firstly, by rules Clove should have let that kid learn to fend for himself, toughen up after a good bashing, and secondly, if Clove was going to interfere, she should have bashed the bullies up, not solve the problem diplomatically. That kind of thinking wasn't encouraged in District 2.

Not to say Clove was reluctant or unable to fight. She was a fierce fighter, brave and wickedly deadly in battle. There was no doubt that she would be a victor one day. This feel that Clove had about her drew Cato to her more so than anything. That honourable warrior's air that hung around Clove, coupled with the fact that all of a sudden, in a rush of hormones and light-headedness, his best friend was beautiful, had Cato doing anything that he could to be near her. The problem was, whoever was running the academy, none of the students really knew, seemed to have expected things of that nature to occur. Girls and boys did nothing together: they were trained separately, lectured separately, ranked separately and ate lunch separately. When Cato realised he hadn't seen his friend in a week and she was still all he thought about, well, that was how he ended up throwing stones at her window in the middle of the night.

She wasn't exactly thrilled to see him, though she too had recently begun to see him as something more than a friend, after all, it was two in the morning. "What do you want?" she hissed angrily, "My sister will skin me alive!" "Well," Cato said awkwardly, not really having such a valid reason now that he was faced with the girl he was practically stalking. He opened his mouth and was dangerously close to beginning to ramble about her 'aura,' but stopped himself just in time. "Well Clover, I think I might really, really like you. So I thought I'd best come over." Clove looked at him suspiciously at first, as though expecting a bunch of laughing people to burst out of the bushes. When none did, she began to smile, slowly at first, then surely. "Well Cato, I think I might really, really like you too. So I'd probably best come down then."

**Sorry, I don't think that chapter was as good as my last one, the idea seemed good at the start but I couldn't really get it going anywhere. Tell me what you think? And also, if you have any ideas for my next one., they would be very much appreciated! -L**


	3. Insanity

In simple terms, Cato went mad after Clove died. But that's not much of a story, is it?

Clove had been a solid presence in Cato's life, and even though she was so much smaller than him, Cato knew that looks could be deceiving in that manner. Clove was strong, much stronger than anyone really gave her credit for, which was part of the reason Cato had so much reason to deny her death. It isn't an easy thing, to begin to acknowledge the absence of something, which as far as you can remember, has always been there.

Up until she was gone, Cato didn't realise how much he depended on his love. Love is a strange thing, he thought on his first night on his own, when he was not so much crazy yet, but very confused. He had loved Clove for years, and thought that he was an expert on the subject. As it turned out, he learnt a whole lot more that night than he had learnt in the rest of his life, by a long way. He learnt that love isn't always soft and sweet. That it can be cold. That it can kill you from the inside out. That it can turn you crazy. Turn you completely and utterly crazy.

He spent the day after that fateful night hunting Thresh, with murderous thoughts rushing through his head. He was so full of grief, the pang of loneliness, and the emotion that was always quick to come to him: anger, that by the time he had cruelly slaughtered the poor boy who was thinking only to avenge the girl who had been like a sister to him, he no longer knew what was real and what wasn't. The sensation, he thought, was quite like that of the tracker-jacker venom. He was lost, and was desperate for hope. So desperate, infact, that his sad, anguished brain began to lie to him.

_Clove is still alive, _it told him. _She's just gone for a little while. If you can win, then she'll be waiting for you in the hovercraft. Don't die Cato, or Clove will be all alone. _Some part of him resented this fictional, breathing Clove, for leaving him, and just sitting in a hovercraft, waiting for him to win. But the rage just supplied his brain with more fuel for more confusion, and by the time 'Foxface' died, he was completely mad. "Another one down Clove," he said savagely, "Two more and I will be back with you."

He felt this unbearable guilt, thought that Clove left him after Thresh attacked her, because Cato couldn't save her; and was by extention, useless.

"I begged you to stay with me Clove, but you left," he muttered to himself as the arena went dark. The finale was coming, and he knew it. "I'm coming back to you soon. You will regret leaving me."

With his brain full of dark thoughts he prowled the woods, ears and eyes open, ready to move at the slightest disturbance in the shadowy forest. It didn't do him much good in the end. The first sign of the wolves that he noticed was the most subtle rustle of the leaves, and he whipped around quickly, senses sharpened by his paranoia. The second sign? An amber pair of eyes looked at him, big and glowing.

"Thresh!" he gasped in a voice gone raspy from all the silence that had filled his time since Clove… left. He backed up, and saw the body. It was massive, as hinted at by the eyes the size of oranges staring blankly at him. Its fur was dark, and muscles tense, body ready to spring.

"I killed you!" he yelled suddenly, not aware of what his body was doing, "You're dead! Go back to hell Thresh!" The giant that resembled a wolf suddenly stood up on his back legs, sending jolts of fear through Cato's body. Then he howled, a haunting, bone-chilling howl, that finally startled Cato's body into listening to the command his brain had been screaming at him: _run! _

He ran hard, telling himself that if he ran just a little faster, he might live to see Clove again. Well, this was motivation enough to get him to the Cornucopia, where the 'star-crossed lovers' were waiting. If they were star-crossed, what were he and Clove? Katniss shot at him, and he arrow bounced harmlessly off his chest. Of course, he had forgotten he was wearing his armour. Still, when he saw her, the only thing he could think was that Clove used to call her Bitch on Fire. _Cato, _he told himself off, _don't talk about Clove in past tense. You'll see her if you just survive a little longer. _But the thing was, Cato was not a survivor, but a killer.

Killing the star crossed lovers should have been easy, but it wasn't. Peeta, who was nowhere close to matching Cato's combat skills, had a determination that defeated even Cato's. It wasn't that Peeta loved Katniss more than Cato did Clove. No, it was more than somewhere, very deep down, Cato knew Clove was dead. The whole lie, that fictional Clove, was just an escape for Cato's tortured mind. And maybe that was why, in the end, the two lovers from District 12 prevailed and Cato passed on.

_Oh well, at least I will really be with Clove now._


	4. Dreams

"There is only one sleeping bag Clover," Cato said, waggling his eyebrows. "You're lucky I love you," Clove rolled her eyes as she got inside. "I am," Cato agreed as he lay down next to her, "I would have gone crazy, otherwise." "Damn right," Clove smirked, laying her head on his chest, "Do you have you know… a bucket list Cato?" He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at her. "A list of things to do before I die?" Clove nodded and he went on, "I've never really thought about it." "Well I kind of came up with one while I was on the train," Clove closed her eyes briefly, "I wrote it down and left it in my room. The cleaners probably found it and are having a good laugh at it right now."

"What was on it?" Cato asked, and Clove racked her brains, "Uh… to grow my hair until it reached the floor." Cato grinned, "That would be an interesting look." Clove laughed, "And incredibly annoying, but it would be very satisfying. Both to have and to cut off at last." Cato laughed, "Fair point. Well, I would eat 10 of those chilies that grow just outside the training centre. Remember when Johnny thought he was so tough, ate one and almost choked to death because it was so hot?" "Vividly," Clove smirked, she had never liked Johnny and his cocky manner, "Are you sure you can eat one?" "I'm Johnny, of course I can," Cato mimicked Johnny's almost constantly repeated phrase, and the two laughed. "I want to write a song when I get out of here," Clove said thoughtfully, "A whole album of songs. And I'll learn to play piano too, so I can play to my songs." "I've always wanted to learn an instrument. I'll put learning to play guitar on my list," Cato agreed, playing a few chords of air guitar. "You can be my guitarist," Clove giggled, then became more serious, "I want withdraw my sister from the training academy. She's been there two years and she's only nine. I don't want her to have to go through all of this, and once I come back, I will have the money to feed her and educate her elsewhere." "Sounds smart," Cato nodded, "I'm the youngest, so I can't really do that. I would like to build a monument though, to all the tributes that have died in the games."

They were so blissfully happy as they planned all the things that they would do upon their return home, it never occurred to them that some of the things they were saying were rebellious. That was, until Clove said something that could not be ignored, even by two day-dreaming lovers, "I want to stop the Hunger Games." After that, the talk stopped instantly, until Clove announced that she was going to sleep. Cato, however, couldn't put his mind at rest, and lay there, feeling uncharacteristically small under a billion piercing stars. That was, until, Cato's keen ears heard the change in Clove's breathing pattern, and the soft gasping, which meant she was crying.

"Clove?" he asked softly, rolling over to face her. "What if I just got us killed?" she whispered through her tears, "What if I just ruined it all for us?" She couldn't face the possibility that the Capitol was going to kill them because she threatened them, couldn't believe that she might never be able to fulfil her bucket list, that she'd never see her family again. And worst of all, the possibility that they would kill her lover because of her.

"I won't let that happen Clove," Cato soothed softly, "I won't. We'll go home, and we will live together in a nice house in Victor's village. We'll paint the walls blue, and…" he was interrupted. "And we will have a big vase in the kitchen, and every day we will put different flowers in there. We will have a really big, soft couch, and massive supply of caramel ice cream." Cato smiled, "All of that is yours, my love. Ice cream and all."

**Ok, that wasn't as long as the others, but i hope you liked it. if you have any ideas for my next one, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE tell me, i write for you guys so i might as well write about the stuff you want to hear. i really enjoy writing this anyway, but ideas are always appreciated. :) - L**


	5. Tears

Cato was well known in District 2 for never being showing fear or sadness. Well, more for not showing any emotions other than anger and arrogance. He never smiled, he never laughed, he never backed down, and he most certainly _never _cried. Well, almost never.

Even those who appear invincible have feelings, no matter how hard they might try to suppress them. Luckily for him, Cato was extraordinarily good at finding the exact time and place to best release all the pent up emotion inside of him, so that no one would see or hear him, and he would still be known as the monster of a boy who was going to be a victor one day.

Eventually, everyone has his or her downfall. A moment when their plans crash in over them, and all of a sudden they are stripped bare, and are immeasurably and incomprehensibly vulnerable. It didn't matter that just that day Cato's trainer, Jupiter Hayes, victor of the 68th Annual Hunger Games; told the whole class that they should look up to Cato's immense level or emotional scarcity, or what appeared to be. It never matters when your best friend is in the Hunger Games.

Marcus had been another half to Cato, but you might have never guessed that if you weren't a particularly good observer. Friendship that extended beyond hello's in the morning were frowned upon in the academy, and at any sign of a bond beginning to form, the group was promptly separated, and often never had the chance to do so much as speak to one another again. Cato and Marcus had been experts in hiding their friendship, but there was always going to be someone who looked closer. Enobaria Ison confronted the boys. Enobaria was well known as the victor that no one was brave enough, or stupid enough, to refuse. Except an extraordinarily angry Marcus, that is.

Marcus was punished for the spiteful words he directed at Enobaria, who had always had a dangerous temper. Marcus was forced to volunteer as tribute, aged only fifteen. Marcus was strong, but against five burly eighteen-year-old 'Careers' and eighteen others? Cato didn't have the best faith in his friend's ability to make it home, especially as Acacia Blaze; the eldest and fiercest of the Blaze sisters was his district partner. He watched his friend fight in the Games, watching Acacia closer than Marcus himself, hoping that maybe if he kept up a continual guard, Marcus might notice the enormous threat that his beautiful ally posed to not only him, but every tribute in that arena.

He didn't.

The day Marcus died, Cato knew that he couldn't keep his feelings in much longer: he was a ticking time bomb. He snuck out of the lunch hall, where everyone at the academy was eating and watching Acacia run away from Marcus' dead body, screaming like a child deranged. It seemed that the guilt associated with her recent murder had finally caught up with her, and Cato could see that she hadn't anticipated anything of that measure. Tearing his face away from the giant screen, he sprinted down the hill that backed off the academy. He was stunned as to what he found down there by the creek, where he had intended to have a good scream.

Clove Blaze looked very little like her sister as it turned out; but like Acacia, had her own entrancing beauty. Though in her current state, it was hardly noticeable. She was lying amidst the fallen pine needles, half buried under a shrub, her hair messed up, and tears streaming down her face. Her nails were pressed hard into the skin of her arms, and Cato could see blood beginning to form. He hadn't realised how angry he was until the words escaped his lips, "What are you crying at? She's still alive; Marcus is the dead one. Or don't you remember how your big sister killed him?" he sneered harshly, putting emphasis on the words 'big sister' as though to make Clove herself feel responsible for Marcus' murder. Clove had looked vulnerable lying half-buried in dirt and pine needles, and maybe she had been, but her response was the very opposite.

"Shut up Cato Wrightwood! Just because she has a _chance _of coming home, which isn't great anyway now that she's flipped, she'll never be the same! They'll have a victor just like last year's; it'll be Annie Cresta all over again! I don't want this to happen to my family. My dad doesn't give a shit about me, my mum's dead; I'll either have a mad or a dead older sister and a younger sister with no one to take care of her! I'm sorry Marcus is dead but don't act like you're the only one with any right to be sad!" she stood up and shouted at him, before beginning to cry again.

Something clicked in Cato's brain as he realised that she was just as lost as he was. Clove, like Cato, had been known for her invulnerable air, and he had always liked her to some extent anyway. "I'm sorry," he said humbly, as she stared at him. After all, you didn't hear that phrase at all around the academy, "I'm sorry Clove," he repeated. She continued to study him, and then saw the tears sparkling in his eyes. "It's okay Cato," she sighed. Therefore, the two ended up spending hours hidden in the valley by the creek, letting out all the sadness that had previously threatened to explode from inside them.

That was the day they learnt it was okay to cry.

**There we go, my longest yet! It's probably not great, but I really enjoyed writing it. Reviews would be much appreciated, and I would especially love to hear from you if you have an idea for my next chapter. Thank you for reading my work, I love to wake up to more views! -L**


	6. Mistakes

"Clove, please listen to me!" Cato was shaking with suppressed anger as he watched Clove sharpen one of her knives in the light of the moon, sitting cross-legged on the bed and avoiding his gaze with a look of complete calmness of her face. "I know what you're going to say Cato, so save your breath. What are you doing in my house anyway?" Cato clenched his fists and smirked, "If you knew what I was going to say, you'd know why I was here." "I know you're trying to talk me out of volunteering, I just don't know why you had to come in the middle of the night. You should have talked to me during training." Cato sighed exasperatedly, "You avoid me in training Clove!" She actually bothered to look up from her knives to deliver a perfect death stare, "Only because I knew you want to stop me volunteering." "What's wrong with waiting two years! Just because you won the girl's trials, it doesn't mean that you have to go this year. Enobaria said you could wait if you wanted," Cato tried to keep his cool and reason with the small girl, who had diverted her attention once more, back to her knives. "I don't need to wait Cato. I'm strong enough to win already, and what will my dad say anyway?" she spoke in a short tone, the impatience ringing clearly through her words. Cato sighed, "So it is about your dad. I just didn't think that you would happily go into the Hunger Games with me when you have two more years." "Why would my district partner make a difference? We're not anything anymore, and really, how do I say to my dad, 'sorry, I'm going to wait a while, I don't want to go into the Hunger Games with the boy I denied having any relationship with to you.' It's not going to work Cato." Cato felt as though he had been stabbed deep in his gut, "Nothing? I knew we were over, but I didn't think you meant forever. I love you Clove. I don't care how little I mean to you, but it will hurt me so much if I end up in these games with you." Clove, currently in self denial, somehow found it within her to send the boy she loved away with the words, "I don't care. Just go away."

_* On the train to the Capitol _*

There was a soft knock on Cato's door, but he continued to lie on his bed, recovering from a very violent outburst of anger. Clove had never been one for patience, and after a few seconds of silence, she sighed, and opened the door herself. Cato caught sight of her, and another wave of anger boiled up inside him. Never one to manage his impulsivity, Cato grabbed the nearest object, a butter knife, and hurled it with all his strength at Clove. The blunt end hit her in the shoulder, and bounced off harmlessly. "I thought that I was the knife master here Cato," she smirked, picking the knife off the ground, "But those were some pretty dazzling skills." He next reached for his lamp, but before his hand was halfway there, he found his sleeve pinned to the wall by Clove's butter knife. "Why are you here?" he growled at her. She stared at him angrily for a few seconds, an alarm clock in her shaking hand, and Cato was already beginning to duck when all of a sudden she crumpled as though shot and fell to the ground, crying. He yanked the knife out of the wall roughly, leaving a large dent; then started towards Clove. "I've stuffed it up Cato!" she howled through eyes, which were blinded by tears. In most other cases, Cato would have responded with a 'too right you have,' but there were still feelings inside of him for Clove that he couldn't banish. "We'll figure something out," he whispered, taking her in his arms. "But only one can win Cato!" she sobbed violently, her whole body shaking with every shuddering breath she took, "I shouldn't have volunteered. But I was mad at you and scared of my dad…" she broke off, and the tears took over. "We'll get through it Clove. We're strong, stronger than they are. We'll survive," Cato soothed, trying to put meaning into his words, which he knew were lies. "I don't ever want to leave you Cato, when we broke up, I didn't mean forever. I want to stay with you forever," she whispered into his chest, and he squeezed her tighter, "I'll stay with you Clove, as long as you stay with me.

**There you go, hope you liked it! I'm going away for two weeks, and will not be able to post any stories in that time. Leave me some reviews to come back to? - L**


	7. Advice

"I need you to tell me honestly if there is anything whatsoever going on between you two," Enobaria said sternly, a snarl not far from pulling back her lips. Cato and Clove stared at each other for a nanosecond over the table, before Clove said smoothly, "There's nothing." Enobaria let out a little huff and rolled her eyes, "Do you need me to remind you of the incident earlier this morning?"

They didn't, of course. It replayed vividly in Clove's mind: the unceremonious wake-up call that had been Enobaria's shrill yelling, "Cato Woods! You are beyond mentoring! Don't expect any sponsor gifts you mindless Neanderthal!" Clove had been afraid for Cato, if he was having another of his furies no-one had any way of predicting what disastrous things might happen. She gave the tangled sheets of her bed an intense stare, remembering the madness of the previous night; then she tossed the memory as far from her mind's eye as she could, pulling on a tank top and a pair of running shorts, and walking down the corridor to the source of the noise.

She could see still the scene that greeted her detailed and sharp in her mind. Enobaria was red in the face, bellowing insults and threats at Cato, who had a lamp raised in his hand, and bloody feet from the broken glass and debris that covered the floor. "I don't want your sponsor gifts you fat cow!" Cato hissed dangerously, "I don't care about winning!" His voice was getting louder, his face redder, and the lamp was in a prime position to be thrown. Clove chose this moment to intervene, not because she was concerned for Enobaria's safety, which was never really an issue as the former victor could definitely fend for herself, but because when Cato was angry he was most unlike himself, and therefore most in danger of spilling a secret.

"Cato," that one word, that one moment when her green eyes met his blue ones; and the lamp was on the floor, and the gap of several meters that had stood between them was covered by his fast footsteps. "I'm sorry Clove," he had said softly, and taken the liberty of looking into those green eyes one last time before walking off to breakfast, leaving Clove alone in the room with a fuming Enobaria. "You know," Clove had said sullenly, "Yelling at him during one of his furies doesn't really help," before stomping out of the room herself.

"Well if you both remember what happened," Enobaria scowled, "Then you would agree that it might seem apparent that there is more than just 'nothing' as you said Clove?" Cato looked at her with a sort of confused expression on his face, before saying, "Relationships are not allowed in the Academy," the exact phrase everyone who had passed through the iron gates of the Academy of the Future's gates. "No kidding, genius," Enobaria rolled her eyes, and it was at that moment when Clove remembered how young Enobaria was: only twenty-one, "You wouldn't let the Academy know if something was going on."

There was a silence that lasted several minutes, and Enobaria grew impatient, "You two have to be down at training in twenty minutes," she said lazily, flipping her shiny, chestnut-brown hair out of her face and checking her watch. Clove continued to stare her down; green eyes piercing Enobaria's dazzling blue, but Cato gave in, "I'm not leaving that arena without Clove." Enobaria looked at him carefully, as if considering his motives, "That doesn't sound like a very likely outcome," she said slowly, "Who has ever heard of two victors?" Cato considered this for a while, before answering, "Well then it looks like Clove will be the one to come out."

There was a thudding noise as the knife that had spent the past few hours hidden inside Clove's sleeve stuck in the hard wood of the table, "You know that's not happening Cato." "That's an expensive table Clove," Enobaria raised her eyebrows and pulled the knife out, "Just be glad that joke of an escort isn't here." "He's not sacrificing himself for me," Clove looked murderous, and Cato uncomfortable. "Well good luck getting out then," Enobaria sighed and stood up, "You two had better get your butts down to training."

**Ok, I have a feeling that really sucked, I wrote it on the plane back from my holiday at two in the morning, but I thought I'd post it anyway. Expect another chapter fairly soon, I spent all afternoon practicing piano and reading Clato fanfics, so I am FULL of ideas. Hopefully the following chapters will be better than this one. Any ideas, constructive criticism, random venting etc. I would LOVE to hear it, so review! -L**


	8. Remembrance

They were well loved in District 2, and had an unimaginable influence on the citizens of the proud district after their death. Clove had two sisters, one twenty-one and a former victor: Acacia, and one only eight years old: Cesca. Cato had a ten year old brother named Max and a single mother. When those two people who had meant so much to them were slaughtered by the Capitol, the world ended in some ways for them. Mrs Woods loved Clove just as much as she did Cato, and she and her sisters had spent much of their childhood in her house, as they were distinctly unloved and neglected by their father and twenty-five year old stepmother: a girl from District 1 named Pearl, a former victor with almost no self-respect whatsoever. Cato had been a big brother to Cesca and the love between Cato and Clove had been a big source of happiness to the lonely Mrs Woods, abandoned by her husband.

When Cato and Clove died, everyone was simply too sad to do anything. Acacia had been mad ever since winning the games, and while she finally began to look after her youngest sister, (a big improvement from before Clove died when she stayed in her room all day) she was devastatingly sad, and her sobs were the cause of much anxiety on Cesca's behalf. Mrs Woods lost all faith in humanity, and fell into a deep depression that rivalled even Acacia's. In times of such despair, it was the two youngest who found the light.

The day before Collection Day, the day when the two identical ebony coffins would be delivered to the Justice Building of District 2, Cesca ran away from home. In an eight year olds eye's running down the street and down the hill to the local stream was a big deal, which reflected how bad things were at home. Cesca had found Acacia with blood dripping down her wrists and a knife in her hands, and that had sent the little girl over the edge. Like all young people, Cesca had a hiding spot, hidden under a tree by the small stream. She cried and cried, with fleeting thoughts that perhaps death would be a kinder fate for her and those around her. Such dark thoughts to run through an eight year old's mind. She should have been playing with dolls, but instead she was caught up in the cruel games of the Capitol, in which so many more people than the tributes were affected. She was living proof of that.

Mrs Woods had stopped eating, and hadn't spoken a word to Max since Cato's gory death. After hours spent hammering at his mother's bedroom door with a plate of carefully made toast and scrambled eggs, Max finally saw the door of his mother's bedroom open. However, it turned out to be just the reaction he didn't want. Mrs Woods had staggered out, glass of wine in her hand, thrown the plate across the room and screamed terrible things at him. Told him to go away, told him she couldn't cope with him anymore, and that he might as well leave because she wasn't going to look after him, and what was the point of living anyway, now that Cato was dead? Mrs Woods had never loved one of her sons more than the other, but had loved them both dearly enough that Cato's death, coupled with far too much alcohol, drove her off the edge. Max ran away from the wasted monster his mother had become, and ended up lost by the stream.

He didn't mean to find Cesca, in fact, he wanted to be alone. But as he was trudging through the forest, not seeing properly through the tears in his eyes, he almost stepped on her. She had been there for hours by that point, and the tears had finally slowed. Cesca looked up at him with a face as pale and perfect and a porcelain doll's and saw the blonde hair, the blue eyes, the strong build of her sister's long-time boyfriend, "Max?" He looked startled for a second, and then responded with, "Hey Cesca." "You really miss him, don't you?" Cesca asked in that pure, innocent voice of hers, and Max looked confused, "Of course. You miss her, right?" Cesca nodded her small, pixie-like face, "All the time." "How's A?" He tried to keep his voice even, asking it like asking for a weather forecast. Cesca rocked back and forwards as a new wave of sobs racked her body, "I saw her today in the bathroom Max," she took a deep and shuddering breath, "She was cutting herself with a knife. She was bleeding so much. You know," her voice quivered as she began an insane ramble, driven by grief and exhaustion, "Clove didn't bleed at all when she died. Just a big dent in her head; kind of like a crater on the moon, you know? Do you think it might have hurt a little less that way? Why would Acacia cut herself? She was bleeding so much, all over her hands!" Cesca's small voice was lost in sobs, and Max sat down next to her, gripping her hand tightly. "My mum locked herself in her room and just spends all her time drinking. She won't eat, and she won't talk to me. Why did they have to go and die? I don't want to be so sad!" Max buried his face in his hands, but then continued talking, "We shouldn't forget them though. If we are getting their bodies tomorrow, we should have a good funeral planned." Cesca nodded, and brushed some thin black hair out of her face, "There should be plenty of violets." Max nodded in agreement, perhaps he too was remembering the day the previous summer when Cato had covered Clove's room in violets on her birthday, or more recently, the time in the arena when Cato had given her a small posy of violets with the words 'they'll keep you safe.'

The plans went on as they walked home, back to Cesca's where they built a fortress of pillows and blankets to sleep in, hoping that they might be able to block out the sadness with them. Such childish and desperate hope, in times such as these was not uncommon, and was shared, (in secret, of course,) by the adults also. Because hiding behind a wall of pillows was so much easier than facing your past.

The funeral was at night; a joint funeral for the true star-crossed lovers. District 2 was known all around Panem for their toughness and strength, and you would never guess they had a soft side. Watching the Hunger Games, for the first time the citizens of the proud district did not scoff at love. They did not call their tributes weak or hopeless. Because deep down all of them just wanted to see a happy ending, wanted the hope that those two tributes had planted in their fiery souls. Everyone knew when the funeral was going to happen, and to the great surprise of Cesca, Max and Acacia, (Mrs Woods still hadn't left her room,) people from all over District 2 came to say farewell to these two tributes, for they were special beyond words. As well as planting that seed of hope with a love never seen before in District 2, the Capitol caught all their conversations, all their whispers. The two had planned from the start to rebel against the Capitol, which was what caused the Capitol to set the muttations on Cato: they couldn't have a rebel survive. But what they didn't realise was that a rebel survived in every citizen of District 2 who had watched those Hunger Games. It would be impossible to know these people and not have the flame of rebellion ignite in your heart.

Ten thousand hopefuls, ten thousand candles in the night, reflecting the stars in the sky. One song sung by ten thousand voices. Ten thousand posies of violets thrown into two deep holes, turning the ground purple. One little girl, standing up in front of ten thousand people, began to speak, "My sister is gone. The boy she loved is gone too. We want them back, but that can never happen because the Capitol took them, and you never get anything back from the Capitol. Every year people suffer this hardship, every year families cry and mourn for those lost. My sister never wanted any of this to happen again, and neither did Cato. We can remember them, and mourn them, and celebrate their lives, but that won't stop the Capitol." At a warning look from her older sister, reminding her of the danger of the things that she was saying, Cesca changed the subject, throwing her head up to the stars, "I love you Clove. I love you Cato. I hope you are happy amongst the stars, and I know that you are together. We will never forget you."

Several people said a few words, talking about things they remembered about the two. "Never before had I seen two young people so in love." "And the smile of Cato's face that day when Clove finally let him ask her out. I had never seen such a happy face on a boy raised for slaughter." Finally, before the candles were laid down on the ground and the graves sealed, a slideshow was played of photos of Cato and Clove, prepared as a surprise by Clove's main trainer, and as it turned out, friend. Clove on Cato's back, speeding along to the park after their first day of high school, back when they were only best friends. Them lying next to each other on the training mat, weapons cast aside, laughing hysterically. Clove signing Cato's cast when he broke his arm only two years ago. Cato holding Clove up in a handstand. The next shot was taken only seconds later, when they were both fallen on the ground, hugging. The final photo was taken of them in the arena, squashed together in the same sleeping bag, looking up at the stars and talking about their dreams. Ten thousand people cried as they went home that night.

The next day a headstone was put in place, courtesy of the stone mason that lived next door to the Woods family. It read:

_Here lies Cato Woods and Clove Blaze_

_Rebels and lovers_

_Brutally murdered by the Capitol_

_And remembered fondly in our hearts_

And engraved just below, was a violet.

**Well that was a long one from me, and hopefully a good one too, as I feel the quality of my stories has been slipping as I go along. Please review, I craving some constructive criticism as I really do want to improve as a writer. Thank you for reading! -L**


	9. Ink

Dear Clove,

The first thing you need to know is that I am not a letter writer, so don't expect this to be a work of art. Don't even expect it to be close. It could be disgraceful. But I need to tell you a few things.

If you are reading this Clove, you have won the Hunger Games and I am dead. I will be in an ebony coffin, being brought home, but then again you'll be going home too, except you will be alive and breathing. Enobaria will have given this to you, and you will have taken it back into your compartment in the train, I imagine, and you are reading this curled up on your bed, legs tucked under your body like always. The trees flash past outside your window as those pale, long-fingered, knife-throwing hands open this envelope and pull the letter out. I hope it doesn't take you too long to read, with your dyslexia and everything. You're a smart girl Clove, don't you ever forget it. Anyone who says any differently is crazy. I'd bet any money that you saved me several times in the arena with your brain, you have done that so many times already during training, life, etc.

We have been friends since you were nine and I was ten. Do you remember that? When I fell asleep in the change rooms of the training academy and everyone was going to let me sleep through and get in trouble but you woke me up just in time for roll call after lunch? And I didn't even thank you, because I was so angry at everyone else. My anger has always been the worst part of me. I spent that whole day fuming over those who were bad when I should have been focussing on you: a little girl who went out of her way to help a stranger. It was a good thing you did Clove. I know you feel bad about all this killing and violence etc. sometimes, and if you win and are reading this I think that bad feeling would have worsened. You're not a bad person Clove. You're an angel that happens to be slightly messed-up and deadly. Don't worry; I am too, but not the angel part.

Do you remember the time I first kissed you? You punched me, but that was okay. You looked even more beautiful through the blood running over my eyes. Do you remember the first time you let me kiss you? I have to say, as lovely as getting punched was, that time was a little better.

I don't want you to be sad Clove; I want you to remember all the good things that happened. So I thought that maybe I could remind you of some, so when you are feeling sad you can read them and smile. I love your smile Clove. It is as radiant as the billions of stars above us, and I can't see you smile without smiling back myself. You have that effect on people. I know that sometimes things get really bad, and if you are all alone, or feeling that way, I suppose you will be feeling really bad. If you're not, of course, I don't take offense. Don't cry Clove. Please don't cry. Because just like when you smile, watching you cry makes me want to cry… or destroy someone. I hope it wasn't my anger that got me killed. Anyway, here are some happy memories for you.

1. When we ran out of our first day of secondary school, during English, because the teacher was picking on you and saying you had horrible handwriting, what kind of spelling is this? etc. and you looked so murderous I thought you were going to gouge out his piggy little eyes with your pen so I grabbed your hand and we ran to the park and climbed up into one of the really tall, leafy trees so that no-one could find us. We spent the whole day up there, laughing about the look on Mr (I can't remember his name's) face and how he sounded like a dying animal as he bellowed "CLAIRE!" and saying that if he was going to pick on you, he might as well remember your name.

2. When Cesca was born (I know this was also when your mother died Clove but don't think about that keep reading the story there is a good bit,) and you were ten and I was eleven and we both thought that a baby was just the weirdest/coolest thing ever and Acacia drove us and the baby home even though she was only thirteen and almost crashed the car but didn't, all so we didn't have to be with your dying mum and grieving father. Oh sorry Clove, I wasn't meant to say that bit about your parents. DON'T CRY. Now keep reading it gets happy: and Acacia told you to hold the baby while she went to get a bed ready and so you were standing there, slightly shell-shocked with this baby in your arms. And then little Cesca reached up with her tiny, TINY, hand and wrapped your hair around her miniscule fingers. And you said, "She's a nice baby, but when I have mine she's not going to be bald." Clove, nothing would make me happier than looking down on you from heaven with a non-bald baby in your arms.

3. All those countless times at the training centre sparring or throwing knives together. Actually, doing any kind of training was fun with you, even those ones we both hated, like medicinal plants and 'Rope Works.' Do you remember when we first got told we had to leave the blades station and go do 'Rope Works' and you just looked at our trainer and said, "What the hell is 'Rope Works?'" DO NOT think of all the push-ups you had to do after that. But do think of how your arms were so sore the next day you were allowed to type during school rather than write by hand. That way, you had immaculate writing and spell-check. Also, on the topic of 'Rope Works,' remember how you used to make nooses and pretend to hang yourself? And how you were the one who taught me to throw knives properly? Thanks to you I came top of the class in it, with the exception of you, of course. You always beat me, even with arms that had done hundreds of push-ups the previous day. When we had to spar against each other we got so vicious and into it we almost ended up killing each other, and one of the trainers would have to separate us, and then afterwards we would realise how crazy we just went and just about die laughing. This was EVERY time.

Okay Clove, those are the happiest three times I can think of with you, besides the ones already mentioned, (kisses, etc.) and I hope they make you smile as much as I did while I was writing them.

Please do not forget that you are a good person. Please. I know about your pattern of feeling murderous then guilty then murderous because you feel guilty then guiltier etc. as I share it with you. We can kill, and we do kill, and yes, we are very messed up people in general, but I don't think we are completely evil. We have the ability to love, and the ability to show compassion, which has to mean something. Bloodlust isn't evil; it is how we were raised.

I am looking at you while I write this letter Clove. We are sitting on the couch in the train to the Capitol, and you just told me you had never seen me write so many words in your life. Neither have a Clove, but I do these things for you. Plus, the words flow quite easily, as it turns out. I just told you I was writing to my family, and now I feel like a liar and a cheat. Don't resent me Clove.

You look really beautiful, sitting there still in your reaping dress. I know you don't like dresses Clove, but that looks beautiful on you. Of course, you always look beautiful.

If I am dead and you are reading this, there are a lot of things I am going to miss about being alive, and about you. I am going to miss District 2 and hearing your laugh. I am going to miss training every day and cooking with you in the morning after our runs and before training. I am going to miss those runs themselves. I am going to miss looking up at the stars with you and making fun of the crazy teachers and trainers that we have encountered. I am going to miss Cesca and Acacia and Max and my mum, and I am going to miss trips to the park with you when we should have been in English together. I swear I went to one English lesson all last year. If I am not around to enjoy these things, I think you should keep doing them and enjoying them. Find someone else to go to the park with and cook with and run with. Just remember me while doing them. Or forget me, if it makes life easier to get through. I'm not fussy.

I wish I could spend all the time in my life alive with you, but we don't get everything we want, do we?

I love you Clove, stay beautiful and stay strong. Don't hate yourself, but feel free to hate me. Keep shining beautiful, you'll be fine,

Cato.

**Well writing that made me quite sad, hopefully I reached you guys too? Let me know if I should do the next chapter as a letter from Clove, or if I should just leave it at that. Criticism is wonderful, (praise is okay too haha,) and just your general opinion would be very much appreciated if you felt like reviewing. -L**


	10. Ink II

Clove hated being alone. She had never thought of herself as particularly social, she didn't get along with anyone much at school or training. Cato was the exception, of course. Cato was the exception to a lot of things. He was the only person besides Cesca who could make her laugh, and the only person who could beat her with a sword. Having been in an alliance up until sundown when the sky announced Marvel's death, she hadn't realised how eerie and quiet the arena could be at night. Without Cato's solid breathing, the sound of Marvel and Glimmer whispering to each other conspiratorially. Clove bit her lip as she remember the duo from District 1 were both dead, and whatever had been going on between them dead with them. It had never occurred to her that she might miss them so much.

And Cato. Cato. If she missed Glimmer and Marvel, whatever she felt due to Cato's absence was devastating and crushing. It almost crippled her, drove her to keep her hands glued to her knives, possessed her eyes to flit around in fear. In reality, her chances of survival were better without Cato, as he was now an enemy, but her brain convinced her otherwise. Paranoia crept in, increasing with every step she took, and soon the loneliness reached the point where it was unbearable. If Clove were to guess the time, she would assume it to be well past midnight, and Enobaria had highlighted how crucial sleep was, but Clove just kept walking. Enobaria seemed like a lifetime ago, training seemed like a lifetime ago, and Clove began to wonder whether the arena was a separate dimension from the real world entirely. It felt that way without Cato.

As the guilt, loneliness and paranoia threatened to consume her very soul; Clove sat herself down and lit a fire. The fire's light crept up her face, illuminating it but leaving her eyes black pits, sunken into her skull.

(Somehow, the warmth never seemed to touch her.)

She would never know what possessed her fingers to fumble through the fire making kit and pull out a piece of paper used as kindling. Her pale hands plucked a twig from the ground and burnt the end slightly. Her red lips pursed as they blew the fire on the end of the stick out, and then, in her hand, she had a charcoal pencil.

It was always going to take a long time, but she was determined to write her letter.

Dear Cato,

Why am I writing this? You're not going to get this letter, unless there are owls that will take it to you like in the books we read, Harry Potter or whatever. I just started waving my hands manically at an owl and it didn't do anything, so I am pretty sure they aren't magic. God knows why I am writing this.

I think I'm going crazy.

Everyone used to call me tough. I don't _feel _very tough at the moment. I think I have just developed isolophobia: the phobia of solitude, being alone. Which you'd never guess, would you? You said yourself I'm not a people person. I wasn't _really _offended when you said that, I just wanted to see how you would react.

Sorry about that.

On second thoughts, I don't think I do have isolophobia. I think I just invented a new phobia: the phobia of dying alone. Or maybe it exists already? I have it right now and it feels very strong and _very _real. So it must exist already.

I don't want to die without you Cato. I want to be with you forever, and die in your arms. Although that's pretty selfish of me, as then you would be all alone to face my phobia. But maybe you wouldn't mind dying alone. I hope not, because it isn't a very nice phobia to have. Actually, it like really, really, really, really, sucks. My heart wants to give out, but I won't let it. For you, Cato. Or maybe for me. I think we have already established it is my fear and not yours.

Oh God. I really have gone nuts. We haven't established anything because _you are never going to read this. _Unless, of course, the owls have changed their mind about ignoring me and being mundanely non-magical. I could really use Hedwig right now. I'd even settle for Errol. One second and I will check if they are feeling in a letter-carrying mood.

They aren't. Stupid owls.

This is ridiculous. I'm really, really, really, really, extraordinarily sleep-deprived right now Cato. I should be sleeping. But I can't. It's just me and the owls, being nocturnal. God, I should go to sleep. But I can't Cato.

You are probably rolling your eyes at me right now, (wait, no you're not, because you _cannot _read this,) but I really mean it. I will not let myself go to sleep right now. Why? Because I am scared that if I close my eyes and go to sleep I may never wake. I might die without you by my side. I might never get to tell you my final wishes, and you might never be able to soothe me as I finally slip away from this world. God, listen to me. (Actually, don't, because _you can't.) _But really, this is ridiculous. The next time I see you Cato, you will either be trying to kill me or a face in the sky. I hope you are trying to kill me. I always enjoyed sparring with you.

Or I might never see you again. I might die, right here, right now, and the last words I ever said to you would be 'stay out of the sky.' The last time I saw you it would have been raining so hard I could barely see your face. Please God, no. There are so many other things I want to tell you, and I want to see your hair and your eyes shine in the sunlight one last time. Oh God no, now I am going to cry. _Don't cry Clove, Careers don't cry okay?_ I am never getting out of this arena Cato; that much is certain.

I should stop writing right now, and burn this letter in my fire, and play around with my knives and smile evilly like the perfect intimidating and deadly Career, but I can't. It's like my hand is glued to this crummy twig. Every time the charcoal on the end runs out, I have heart palpitations, like, _what if I can't get this letter to Cato? _Then I remember it's not going to get to you either way, and I might as well be writing this in the dirt.

I love you Cato, please don't die before I see you again. There is no way I am dying before I encounter you. There is no way I am going to let myself. _No fucking way, _you hear me Cato?

Of course you don't. This is an illegible letter written in measly charcoal, not an instant message.

If I don't see you again before I pass over, just remember that I love you and that I will miss everything about you and that I will never forget you and God now I really am crying because I know no matter how much I write this will never get to you and-

Cato. Did you hear that? You must have heard that. You _cannot _have missed it. Two tributes from the same District can win. Together. We can win TOGETHER. Stuff this, I'm definitely _not_ dying in this arena. I am going to find you and never let you go and hopefully catch up on some sleep and stop gabbling on like an idiot COME ON CLOVE JUST THROW THE GODDAMN LETTER AWAY!

Okay I can't bear to throw this letter away so it looks like it is coming with me while I go find you. We will win this Cato. You hear me?

Of course you don't.

**Ok, I don't know if that letter was quite as good as Cato's, but I tried. Even though I'm a girl, I actually find it easier to get into Cato's head, which just goes to show how weird I am. Notice the subtle hints of Glarvel? I ship them crazily hehehe. And yes, I know it is very unrealistic: CLove writing all the words in _charcoal pencil,_ but I had to have her writing somehow. Any criticism, feedback, ideas for future chapters etc. YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO! The review button is looking very tempting to click, yeah? -L**


	11. Evil

The first day that Clove came to the training academy, just eight years old, she got told to fight another girl of the same age, no weapons allowed. She walked onto the mat, under the eye of their grey-haired trainer, who was unmistakeably pissed off at being left to train the eight year olds. "Ready, fight!" he yelled, and the two girls eyed each other nervously before one made a lunge for Clove's hair. Clove leant back to avoid the girl's groping fingers and instinctively kicked out. Her foot found the girl's face, who stumbled back, looking shell-shocked, one hand clamped over her jaw. Clove wasn't fazed, and she took advantage of the girl's shocked state to tackle her onto the ground. It wasn't a brilliant tactic, as Clove was much smaller than this girl, who flipped her over easily. However, she didn't count on Clove biting her hand, hard too, and using her flexible legs to flip her onto the ground. The girl started to cry, a bruise was already blossoming on her jaw, her hand was bleeding, and now her stomach had been kicked. Clove stood up, brushed herself off and walked off the mat.

But the second she got within arm's reach of her trainer, his fist connected with her face. Hard. Clove fell to the ground as he began to yell at her, "You don't just walk away from your enemy. She's standing up and you think it's over! You have the nerve to walk away from her when she's still capable of fighting! How stupid are you, child? Get back on there and finish her. I want to see her on the ground, so that she can't get up!" Clove was mad to be disgraced, mad to see how easily the trainer had punched her. And the poor girl, standing there on the mat trembling, was the one to feel the end of Clove's cold anger.

Isabella Mayworth was sent home with a dislocated knee that afternoon, and a whole lot of slightly smaller injuries to boot. Clove Blaze was sent home with a bruise on her jaw to match Isabella's, but much larger, and pride burning in her heart.

And so was born the ruthless, bloodthirsty Clove.

Cato didn't have the rude awakening that Clove did on his first day of training. He was no stranger to cruelty, violence, or the no mercy rule. With an abusive father, bruises were nothing new. In fact, on his first day of training, he was covered in them. "Got in a fight before you learnt how, have you?" a sneering trainer had asked him. "No," Cato had replied sullenly. "Well you got in a fight with something mate, and you lost. Why do I have to teach a bunch of weaklings, covered in bruises eh?" Cato felt the anger boiling up inside him as he looked into the trainers stony grey eyes. Weak, he had called him. Just like his father had said the previous day.

_"Get up! You're crying. That's a sign of weakness. And I won't let my son be weak." Cato endured a punch to the head, a kick to the gut. "I don't want to ever see you in this house again. You're not my son. You're weak."_

"I'm not weak!" Cato had bellowed, and the trainer hardly flinched. "Prove it," he said in a bored tone, clearly not expecting anything of the following nature to occur. Cato turned around and punched the boy nearest him, turning his head with his fist and therefore concussing him. "Am I still not strong enough for you?" Cato yelled, swinging around to kick another boy, winding him, "Am I still weak?"

And later, those who saw it swore he had a faraway look in his eyes, and even though his gaze was directed at the trainer, that he wasn't really seeing him. And later on in life, when asked, Clove, who always knew him best, would say, "Well of course he wasn't. He was seeing his father."

And that was the day that the violence Cato's father had unknowingly imparted upon his son burst out.

From then on, the two of them only got worse. When she was eleven, Clove learnt that if you had the time and cover, killing a victim slowly was much preferable to a slit to the throat. When he was thirteen, Cato was told to cut his victim's achilles with his sword so that they couldn't stand. This made is easiest to kill them slowly. At fourteen, Clove was taught to find things that would upset her victims to hear, so that she could torture them with words as well as knives. The same year, she was told to use the skin as a canvas: she could carve anything into it, paint with their blood.

So one could argue it wasn't really their fault that they were the way they were.

x x x

"How should I kill her?" Clove lay out all twenty-three of her knives, leaving a space for the one that Fire Bitch had stolen from her, left lodged in her backpack. Cato was quick to answer, "You mean, how should _I _kill her." Clove laughed coldly, "No Cato. I think I was right. I specifically recall you telling me I could have her when we were on the train watching the reapings." Cato growled in frustration, "That was before I knew what a brat she was." "Your loss," Clove said cheerfully, smirking a little, "Now, I'll ask again, how should I kill her?" Cato rolled his eyes, still upset at the missed opportunity to spill some District 12 blood, "I didn't know your inventive wit was beginning to run thin. Can't you, I don't know, carve a smiley-face into her skin?" he asked sarcastically. "Sounds spectacular," Clove said drily, "Maybe I could pull her teeth out? Smash them or something?" "You're a career, not a dentist." "Aw, stuff you Cato," Clove moaned, kissing him, "You can have everyone else. Punish Thresh for rejecting us. Finally finish off Lover Boy." "I can't believe he hasn't died yet," Cato scowled, feeling as bitter as he always did when he thought of his failed kill. "Maybe I'll cut off her ears or something, or all her fingers," Clove said thoughtfully, obviously not listening to Cato and his frustration. "Fingers are unoriginal," he sighed, then asked, slightly timidly, "Clove, do you think we're insane?"

Clove sat back and sighed, before answering with a passionate, "Fuck yeah. Did it take you this long to figure it out?" "I don't know," Cato said miserably, "We're pretty messed up, aren't we?" "We are insanely messed up Cato. Anyone listening to our past conversations would have gathered that pretty quickly." "I guess so," Cato shrugged, "Does it ever upset you Clove?" There was a long silence, before Clove said in an uncharacteristically small voice, "Yeah." Cato wrapped an arm around her shoulders, "We're like, evil, right?" A small ghost of a smile flitted across Clove's face, "We're going straight to hell when we die Cato. No messing around in purgatory." "That'll be okay Clove," he kissed her gently; "We'll be the real boy and girl on fire, burning in hell. But I'll smile the whole time, as long as I'm there with you."

**Well that one was a little strange, I'll be the first to admit it. Still, I hope you enjoyed it as I found it quite fun to write, thinking about the training and also that little bit of dialogue at the end, I quite like portraying slightly messed-up characters. Review? -L**


	12. Lessons

_"Cato! Cato!" Clove screamed desperately. Cato was nowhere to be seen, Clove was going to be killed by the monster that stood before her, rock in hand, bellowing at her. She was going to die. But somehow, she didn't. Cato didn't come into view until Thresh was knocked to the ground. Clove got up slowly, her ribs were broken from the hard contact with the ground she had made when Thresh threw her, and she could feel the bone poking out of her side. At least she hadn't punctured her lung. Cato and Thresh were wrestling intensely, Cato was about to move in for the kill. Soon Thresh would be dead and together, the duo from District 2 would kill Katniss. Katniss. Katniss was desperately injured from the knife Clove had managed to send into her forehead, but seemed to be conscious enough to do one fatal act. She sunk a knife into Cato's thigh The knife that Clove had thrown at Katniss right at the beginning of the games. The knife that had missed, and stuck in Katniss' backpack. She never would have thrown that knife if she had known the consequences. All of a sudden, Cato was losing. Thresh managed to get his hands around Cato's neck at the same moment when Cato plunged the sword into his heart. A neck broken, a boy bleeding to death through his chest. And a girl standing there helplessly, watching as the boy she loves dies. In fury and pain, Clove sent a knife into the chest of Katniss and stabbed her forty-seven times, trying to make up for the life-costing damage she had done to Cato; then grabbed the medicine out of her dead hand. She read the label, and took some. Wouldn't want her rib getting infected. She screamed aloud as she pushed the bone back into place, and then looked around at the three dead bodies surrounding her, Cato's slumped over Thresh's. Katniss looked even smaller than usual next to the two giants, but Clove did not allow her heart to ache for the girl who looked so vulnerable in death. Instead, she stood there fighting back tears for the blonde boy with his eyes closed and head leaning at a strange angle. She fought the urge to lay down beside him and close her own eyes, perhaps that way, she might join him. But she didn't. She turned around and stalked into the forest. Lover Boy would die without her… assistance, and once she found the red-head for five, killing her would be a breeze._

Clove had never realised how noisy Cato was until he was gone. Only once his feet finally lay still did she appreciate how loud and echoing they were when they slapped the pavement alongside her as they ran. Only once his neck was pierced by an arrow did she comprehend how comforting and real and _alive _his voice had been. Only once his chest had been ripped apart was she conscious of how drum-like and rhythmic his heart had sounded as her head lay on his chest as she slipped off to sleep. She never slept any more for the absence of that simple thudding in her ear that told her that she and Cato were alive and together. It didn't sound like much, but now that neither of those two things were ever possible again, Clove began to gather how much she had lost.

Being a victor was meant to be amazing. You were meant to feel like the queen of the whole world. You were meant to know that you were the best and the strongest. You were meant to sit up on that straight-backed black chair with your head held high with a crown atop it, beaming as Caesar asked you personal questions. Clove had always thought herself to be quite smart. When being a victor turned out to be a nightmare, she didn't realise how she could have been this wrong about anything.

_Clove's games finished just as the sun was going down. She finished off the girl from five quickly. She had had enough messing around. The hovercraft collected her and she sat quite calmly in the seat until Enobaria came in. She stood up, screaming, "Why didn't you save him? Why didn't we win together?" Nothing she was saying made sense, but she didn't even care, or notice._

The interview with Caesar was something of a torture for Clove. She was proud enough to sit with a straight back and her head held high and answered his question in a voice that didn't shake. She refused to be another one of those slumped victors with wild eyes and an edgy voice. Well, the wild eyes, she did have. The eyes that showed the terrors she had been through, the torturing screams she heard at night, the tears she shed during the day. "You'd obviously prefer to be out here with Cato," Caesar said delicately, "Can you tell us how it felt to lose someone who was obviously such a big part of you?" Clove looked at him with her wild, dancing green eyes, "No Caesar, I don't think I can."

She felt as though she survived by accident, and that there was no real place for her in the world.

She tried to think about all the things she had waiting for her at home. All the things that might make her smile again. But once she got there, she realised that none of it was half as meaningful without Cato. She didn't want to waste away, but she just couldn't help it. There wasn't quite enough left for her in life to keep her smiling, but just enough to keep her holding on. Every night she wished that things might be a little worse, so she had an excuse to just die.

Clove reached a low when she didn't care about much anymore. In fact, she didn't care enough to stop a random boy she met at a bar knocking her up. She didn't really care about the consequences. Clove had a baby boy when she was twenty years old, and named him James. She didn't know the name of his father.

It turned out that James was a brilliant listener. Clove would sit him on the bench of an old flat that she rented to have her own space, and throw kitchen knives at the wall. Even though she stopped training, she never stopped knife throwing. Even when she could barely touch her toes, her aim was dead on. While Clove threw her knives, she would talk to James. She told her sisters, the heart-broken Mrs Woods and Enobaria, her only three visitors, that she was teaching him to speak. Really, she was teaching herself how to find the words to talk about Cato again.

"He was like your mum, Jamesy. He was crazy. And he threw knives too. But no-where near as well as your mum does James. No-one beat your mum. And he had eyes your colour, which is funny, because he isn't your dad. I wish he was though Jamesy, I wish he was. No, he died before you were born. But you'll meet him one day, when you go up to the clouds. Hopefully you'll come a _long_ time after I go up there. Did you see that throw James?"

In Clove's self-defence, James did turn out to be an early talker. And an early walker. Just like Cato, as Mrs Woods said. By the time James was two, Clove was pretty much convinced James was more Cato than he was whatever idiot was his biological father. Clove's knife skills eventually became neglected as her puzzle making and story-book reading improved, but she was still seen, occasionally, throwing those kitchen knives, and them still sinking solidly into the wall, right where she aimed them. Old habits die hard.

After the rebellion, she felt even more out of place.

James developed a passion for soccer when he was only three, after kicking things around on the floor with his mother. When Clove was in one of her quiet, depressed moods, James asked her if they could go play in the park. And for a reason she couldn't quite fathom, she found the strength to get out of bed and take him.

As they walked down the street, kicking the old ball between them, James switched from his usual role as the listener to the talker. "Why do you get so sad?" he asked his mum in his innocent toddler voice. Clove looked at him for a moment, before saying, "Because I miss Cato. And because sometimes I feel like it was my fault he died." It was the first time she had voiced that fear out loud, and as she said it she felt the weight of the world crash over her head. "You're so silly mummy," James said disapprovingly, "You would have kept him down here if you could have." She smiled, "Thanks James."

As it turned out, Clove was a big kick. The ball went all the way from the park, over the fence into the graveyard of District 2. "Mummy!" James whined, "You lost our ball." "No I haven't," she said, shaking her head, "We'll go get it."

From the moment that Clove set her foot in the graveyard, she began to shake. The way your hands shake when you're nervous, except it was her whole body, shaking like a leaf. She only went to this place three times a year: it was all she could handle. On the anniversary of the day he died, May 14th: his birthday, and Christmas. She wasn't aware that she stopped walking, stopped breathing for a moment, but she did. "Come on mum," James beckoned Clove over, "The ball is this way." Her eyes caught the pearly white of Cato's tombstone, and she sighed, "Of course it is."

James picked up his ball with his dirty little toddler hands, "Can we go play now?" Clove had stopped in her tracks, and she shook her head numbly, "In a minute Jamesy. There's something I have to show you."

(She could practically hear Cato's voice in her head, "What kind of a cheesy line was that?")

She sat on the grass in front of _his _headstone, and James, who always knew what to do, sat down next to her. "See here James? This is where we put him to rest. His body is under the dirt here, but his spirit is somewhere up there," she craned her neck in the direction of the sky. "Cato?" James asked quietly. "Yeah," Clove answered, "See this? That says here lies Cato James Woods," she traced the words with her finger. "Like my name?" "Exactly like your name. And here it says, died 29th of January, 3021," her voice cracked as she began to cry, "And this bit says, dearly loved and dearly missed. And this last bit here," the tears came harder than ever, "Is from a song from a long, long time ago. It says: _And I heard your heart beat; you were in the darkness too. So I stayed in the darkness with you._" James threw his little arms around his mother's neck, "It's okay mummy." Clove raised her head as someone entered the graveyard, she recognised it as Enobaria. "Hey Clove," she said sullenly, "Hey James. What are you doing with your son in a graveyard?" Clove got up, wiping the tears from her eyes and gave Enobaria a rare smile, "I'm teaching him to read."

**Well, I tried a 'Clove wins the Hunger Games' scenario and that was the rather depressing result. Hope you liked it, and even if you didn't, thanks for giving it a shot and reading it :) I'm starting back at school tomorrow, so updates might become less frequent. If you have any complaints or really anythign to say at all, you know what to do! :) -L**


	13. Fighters

**Well I decided to tackle to daunting task of Clove's death... eek! I just hope I did some measure of justice to this extraordinarily emotional scene, as it's the reason most of us ship Clato to begin with :) Flashbacks are in **_italics_ **although I don't know why I wrote that, as you obviously know what italics look like anyway. You know what? I'll shut up now, and let you read it :)**

_"You gonna ace it today Clover?" Cato asked between ragged breaths, as he lay on his back, lifting weights. "Of course I am Cato," there was a thud as Clove's knife hit the wall. Bullseye. "Damn right you are," Cato wheezed, starting to get red in the face, "What about me?" "You'll be fine," Clove hardly turned around, "Unless you drop that weight on your chest." "I'm… not gonna… drop the… weight," there was a loud crash as Cato threw the weight off him, and creaks as he slowly sat up, "Jesus."_

It was a strange memory to have as she was confronted with death, Clove supposed, wasn't your life supposed to flash before your eyes? But no, she was thinking back to that day of the tests, the day that determined that she and Cato were to be chosen as District 2's volunteers for that year. That day was always going to come, and Clove had known it for a long time. Still, as they stood up there on the stage in front of their whole district, gripping hands tightly in a rough handshake, Clove could almost tell that it would be the last time she saw her district, at least, through the same eyes. Who knew what might tint and bend her vision of life once she returned?

_"Do you think we have the best district, Cato?" a six year old Clove had asked her best friend. "Of course we do, we've got the highest victor rate of any district. And we've won the games the past three years in a row." Clove had nodded, "Oh, okay," for it was that day that she learnt from her older friend what was valued at the academy: victory. And from that day, she had never looked back. Their ethics became her ethics. The life of the academy became her life. Her every moment became dedicated to becoming a victor. It never really occurred to her for a long time that it might never work out that way._

She was on the ground, at least one rib was broken, Thresh stood towering above, yelling unintelligible words at her, and her knives were as far from her mind as they had ever been in her life. There was no question of her fate. Neither the green eyes she had left District 2 with, nor the crazed, fearful eyes she had now, would ever see her home again.

_"Can you tell what it feels like to die Clove?" Cato had hissed, as he held his knife to her throat, his other hand forcing her head onto the mat. "I'm just not tasting it Cato," she had smiled sickly, and used her flexible feet to kick him off, "Guess it's because you could never kill me."_

But in the end, it wasn't Cato to kill her. Which would have been funny, in a way, if she weren't the one dying. It was the boy from eleven. A rock to the head, not a scream from her mouth, a girl whose age seemed to shoot backwards in death, a little girl's body laying limp on the floor, years of hardship and suffering wiped away. A dent in the head, and a scream escaping Cato's mouth as he saw what happened. Clove never realised that she called for Cato, but she did, just like she always did when she needed someone to rely on. He always had her back, and though she would never admit it, she needed him. And Cato came, like he always did, because without her in his life, there wouldn't be much left in his. They needed each other, sure as anything.

"Clove, oh Clove, God not you Clove, I'm so sorry," Cato was by her side in a whirlwind of apologies and curses, pleading and calling of her name, "Are you okay Clove?" She looked at him through eyes with lids as heavy as though they were made of lead, but underneath the lead they danced, "What do you think, dumbass?" It was the feebleness with which she said those words that scared her, the energy was leaking out of her body at an alarming rate. Who knew how many more breaths her panicked lungs might take? How long would it be until her frantically beating heart gave in? "Stay with me Clove," Cato's voice was desperate as he knelt beside her, one shaking hand in his,  
"Hold on."

_"Give in!" the boys screamed at her. One, two, three kicks to the ribs. "I'll never say it," Clove said from the ground, the words twisted by the blood spewing out of her mouth, caused by the punch to the face she had been dealt earlier. Four, five, six kicks. "You think you're tough, bitch!" they yelled, "Admit it! You're weak!" Seven, eight, nine. Rain began to fall. "I don't think I'm tough, dickheads, I know it."_

Clove was always a fighter. As she lay there in the mud, only nine years old, getting beaten up by five fifteen year old boys, (who could ever argue that that was a fair fight?) Clove was a fighter. She didn't say she was weak, because you she knew she wasn't. She was strong. Ten,  
eleven, twelve. Even as the kicking continued, and little streams of ice cold water began to run into her blood in the ditch she lay in, Clove didn't give in. Clove thought that after a lifetime of being tough, dying wouldn't be so hard. But it was.

As her breaths got shallower, and her vision got blurrier, and a little voice inside her scrambled and beaten head hissed, "This is the end," Clove began to cry. She had sworn that she might die with some dignity, if that were to happen at all. She would lay there and cop her wound like a true fighter, not a tear shed. But Clove wasn't invincible. "I don't want to die," she sobbed, and Cato gripped her hand even tighter, his tears falling onto her face and mixing with hers, "You're not supposed to die Clove. You're supposed to win!" His anguished scream was heard was never forgotten by anyone who heard it, the tortured scream of a boy holding the hand of his lover and feeling her slip away. "I'm not ready to go," Clove choked, "Not yet." "I'll never be ready for you to leave me Clove," Cato said in an unusually hushed voice. And for a moment, they were both remembering the same moment.

Their first kiss had been so sweet, yet so cruel. For once their love was ignited, all that lay ahead was that day when it would be torn apart. Cato and Clove: they lived fast, knowing from the beginning they were doomed to die young.


	14. Anger

Cato and Clove had not only an outstanding friendship and love, but a rivalry that could only be described as legendary. Everything was a competition between the two, from who could get some rare praise from the trainers to who could do the most sit-ups. As kids, they participated in the 'I'm not cold,' competition, spending almost the entire winter in t-shirts and shorts, despite the snow. Clove, being significantly smaller than Cato, was the first to bow out, though only after the academy nurse made her, due to symptoms of hypothermia. Another great tussle of theirs was the 'first to grab a weapon from the weapons cupboard' battle. Clove, using her smaller size to her advantage, managed to routinely slip past Cato and through the slightly open door to grab a belt of throwing knives. Her superior smirk annoyed Cato to no end.

As well as being competetive, the two were stubborn to the point of stupidity, and both were too proud to admit they wanted the other. So  
instead of admitting their feelings, the great battle of 'are you jealous yet?' began. Cato was best at this for the first few years, Clove not being much of a people person, and a late bloomer to boot. Cato's first girlfriend was named Kaia, and Cato was very proud of his tall blonde girlfriend, who was the envy of many girls. But Clove hardly bat an eyelid, not taking any of the bait that Cato threw at her.

"Kaia's got the best 800 metre record, you know?"

"Sorry Clove, I can't do extra training with you tonight, I'm going over  
to Kaia's house."

But the always strong Clove just said, "Have fun," and while Cato was off at Kaia's place, Clove went down to the track set a new 800 metre  
record. Nothing got her going like competition.

The blonde leggy girl was followed by the busty brunette, and two more blondes followed that before Clove fought back. During the summer when she was fourteen, all of a sudden Clove had hips, boobs, her period and legs that seemed to grow so fast you could see them getting longer. Her long black hair, sparkling green eyes, brand new curves and long, toned legs gave her a sudden claim to attention amongst the boys, and Clove, after a year of watching Cato's many girlfriends come and go, knew exactly how to get one.

"Who's that?" Cato asked suspiciously, watching Clove wave across the training centre. "The reason I didn't meet you last night," Clove smirked as she stretched out her calves. Cato scowled, saying indignantly, "I can't believe you Clove! I was waiting for hours!" Clove just laughed, "Not jealous, are you?" Cato looked at her reproachfully, "You wish." "Good," was all Clove said, before adding, "I hope you won't mind him sitting with us at lunch."

"Not at all." Cato lasted several days before Clove and Toby's (what a terrible name, Cato thought to himself,) constant PDA, his solitary training after hours and lonely runs in the morning got to him. "You're training with me tonight Clove," he hissed angrily, grabbing her by the arm as she began to walk out the door, talking rapidly to Toby and not on guard. She didn't screech for him to get off, or even attempt to escape; instead she went completely into attack mode, grabbing his head between her rough hands and twisting his arm. He tried to throw her off of him, but she hung on until she was in a good position to drop back onto the floor, fists up near her face and feet poised to strike.

She looked around, Toby and everyone else had left, leaving her and Cato to one of their more brutal fights. Cato rushed at her, and though she ran, she wasn't fast enough, and ended up crumpled in his strong arms, pinned by his massive body to the floor. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders, tried to kick with her trapped legs, bit at his hands and eventually dragged her fingernails down his arms, drawing blood.

But Cato didn't move.

He looked at her furiously, blue eyes piercing into green, and Clove, for the first time in her life, was afraid of this boy. She had no idea what he was going to do, how he would choose to make her suffer, but she knew that she had made him angrier than she had ever done so in her  
life. This was more terrifying than the time he had screamed at her to get out of his house after one of their fights, even though that time he had been throwing chairs at her. That gaze, that intense fury, his body pressed up against hers, everything about it made her want to scream. But she wouldn't have done so, wouldn't have damaged her pride so much. And even if she had wanted to, she wouldn't have had the chance to even open her mouth. Because after painful minutes of Cato staring harshly into Clove's eyes, while his blood ran down off his arms onto her shirt, Cato couldn't stand any of it anymore, and smashed his lips into Clove's.

The kissing was angry, fuelled by the fire inside of them, and after a while, Clove stopped resisting. She couldn't hold it in forever. Who knows how long they were there, furious passion and a mutual understanding of how the other felt binding them together. From that day, they were never separated, but in the same absoluteness, the competitions never stopped. Not until the very end.

**That one was probably quite a bit shorter than my previous few, but I hope you enjoyed it, as I found that one really fun to write. Review if you have anything to say, (or if you don't!) xx -L**


	15. Calm

_Oh be calm._

_Be calm._

_I know you feel like you are breaking down._

_I know that it gets so hard sometimes,_

_Be calm._

_Take it from me, I've been there a thousand times._

_You hate your pulse because it thinks you're still alive_

_And everything's wrong_

_It just gets so hard sometimes_

_Be calm._

"I want to die," Clove whispered the words to herself and herself alone.

Her hands trembled as she contemplated the knife held by them, the knife that had drawn crimson red blood from her pearly white hands. Hair as dark as a raven, skin like an alabaster, lips red as blood, but this girl was no Snow White. Unlike the girl she had read about once, in a stolen moment during her childhood, there was no happy ending destined for her. And Cato could hardly be called a Prince Charming. Maybe the only part waiting for her from the ancient take was the castle in the clouds, but in a different sense. And anyway, once she did die, how could she be sure a kingdom awaited her? How could she be sure that it wasn't a pit of fire, welcoming her in it's burning arms?

But in any sense, Clove believed she was dead already. She felt a weak pulse beating in her neck and realised how wrong everything was.

"I'm dead, stupid heart. You might as well give it a break."

She had never felt this low, never wanted the end to come this badly. She had no-one, which was nothing new. But for the first time, she didn't even care anymore. Too many blows leaves you numb, so you can't feel the rest. But you still have the bruises in the morning, and you can't help but wonder why they're there. Clove didn't want to hurt anymore, and so she hurt herself so much that she didn't, except the problem with that was that she reached a void of emptiness and anxiety she had never reached before. You would think that not caring anymore would at least mean some calm at long last, that maybe you could welcome complete nothingness. Empty arms could be the most welcoming of all, perhaps. Maybe they were, if you could find them, but Clove got lost somewhere along the way, and while she found emptiness okay, there was no calm, only a heavy and restless worry lurking inside of her.

Sitting there on the bathroom floor, legs crossed and a knife held perfectly by the blade with two nimble fingers, Clove looked the epitome of calm. But like an ocean that looks to be made of perfect blue-green glass, there was an untamed and confused anxiety swirling underneath. The blade wobbled with the shake of her hands, and she pressed her fingers to it's cold edge, the sharp ridge drawing drops of warm blood. The pain wasn't sweet anymore, and Clove didn't know how much longer she could last.

"If you don't shut up heart, I'll stop you myself."

And she meant it, she did, and she wanted to end it all, but the energy lacked. Everything about Clove lacked. She wasn't Clove alive, she was a little sliver of a Clove, the rest of her dead to the world and to herself. Bullying, cruel words and sharper punches, neglect, death playing out in front of her and PTSD. No wonder Clove never slept at night any more.

"If I were to just…" she moved the knife so that the tip of the blade pressed against her décolletage. Her delicate hands carved an intricate patterns, swirls of the deepest red contrasting with the skin of a naturally pale girl who never saw sunlight anymore. And the words, _'be calm, be calm, be calm, be calm,'_ in a loopy, flowery handwriting. An order to Clove from herself, trying to inflict calmness into her body, infuse it into her blood.

And perhaps it worked, or perhaps she was just dying, but either way, the anxiety was leaving her. Soon she would be dead, and soon she would hurt no more. There was a bang as the door was forced open, and a skidding noise as Cato slid across the wet tiles.

"Clove!" he yelped, as he caught sight of his friend on the ground, her eyes far away, as though in a trance, her body slumped against the wall. "Oh Clove God, no, no, no, I heard from Marcus, and none of us had seen you for so long, are you…" he stopped talking as he took the knife out of Clove's hand and embraced her in a warm hug, scooping her off the floor and onto his knees, "Clove, you know I couldn't deal with it if you left us." Clove's lip trembled as her body decided whether or not she wanted to cry, and her eyelids shuddered as consciousness began to slip away, "As long as you give me a reason Cato," she mumbled as her head lolled to the side, the blood loss finally getting to her. Cato didn't need any clarification, he knew exactly what Clove meant. She wouldn't resent Cato saving her life, as long as he gave her something to live for. "It's okay Clover," he spoke to her alone as he worked to stop the blood flow and to keep her breathing, spoke to her even though she was unconscious, "I'll give you every reason."

**Well that one felt very different to write, I was inspired by some poetry I read and decided to give this style and genre a try. Let me know what you think of it, (if it sucks I do need to know, or I might keep writing them! :)) Thanks for reading -L**


	16. Change

Dear Mr Blaze,

We are writing to inform you of your daughter's, (**Clove Blaze**) progress at our academy. As shown in the attached report, she is excelling in all areas of physical assessment. Her knife-throwing is truly exceptional, and is worthy of particular mention. We are pleased to inform you that we believe there is a future for your daughter in the Victor's Village.

But she also has her faults, which we believe must be stomped out if she is to join the thirty-two other victors of District 2 in all their glory. And this is why you are getting a letter this year, along with the usual report. Clove has taken a turn in behaviour this year; we have never seen her like this before. So far this year Clove has:

Missed out on two training sessions;

Come late to three training sessions;

Attacked a trainer;

Demonstrated a close emotional bond with (**Cato Woods**.)

Our concerns mainly involve young Mr Woods, who we believe is a bad influence upon your daughter. In every training session Clove has missed or been late for, so has Cato. As you have undoubtedly heard, Cato is raved about often by the trainers at the academy as the next victor of District 2. As both of these people have immense potential and seem to be headed into two different sets of Hunger Games, we believe that for them to both win they are to be separated and all contact between the two should be cut out completely. We are able to do this while the two are present at the academy, but we will need your co-operation if this is to be enforced.

As we both have the interest of Clove coming home with the crown, I am sure you shall be agreeable to our idea.

Regards, _Archer McKinnon_, Head Trainer at the District 2 Academy

x x x

"Shit," Clove breathed, crumpling the letter up in her hand, her heartbeat quickening at the thought of what her father would say, no, do to her, "Cato, have you got one of these?"

Cato, who had been grinning at his glowing report written by the swords master, looked up, "What?" "This," Clove scowled, handing the letter over. Cato read it quickly, his body beginning to shake with rage as his eyes jumped from word to word, "All contact between the two cut out completely?"

"Yep," Clove nodded miserably, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her sweatpants, "I should have known worse would come from being late and absent than a bunch of push-ups. They know, Cato, they know about us," she groaned, face tilted towards the sky, "What the hell are we going to do?"

Cato opened the letter again, perhaps to rage at Archer McKinnon's words, but as he did, Clove gasped, "Cato, there's a trainer over there!" Cato whipped around, swiftly stuffing the letter back into his pocket, "Fuck." The man wasn't even that far away, and there was definitely no missing the distinctive uniform of the trainers.

He disappeared after a few seconds, and once he did, Clove grasped her long black hair in her hands, "Oh God Cato, he's seen us together, and even worse, he's seen us reading strictly confidential mail! We're stuffed! My dad will be so mad…" "He probably didn't see it," Cato said uneasily, "I mean, wouldn't he have approached us? You're fine. Just get rid of the letter, pretend you never got it. Show your dad the straight A report, forget about that."

"Easy for you to say Cato," Clove snapped, "It's not like your dad… never mind." She had been so terribly close to letting something slip that Clove turned away quickly, and began to walk in the direction of her home, brushing a strand of hair out of her face as she did so.

"Wait!" Cato called after her, "What?" Clove sped up, feet squelching in the usual spring mud, hot tears threatening to break through her eyes. But Cato had always been the faster of the two. "Clove! Talk to me!" his long arm reached out and managed to hook around her waist. What he wasn't expecting, however, was her to gasp in pain.

"Clove?" he asked uncertainly as his girlfriend turned her face away from him as though expecting a slap. The words repeated themselves in his mind.

_As though expecting a slap._

"Clove?" he asked, more tentatively than before. She slowly turned around so that she faced him once more, and permitted him to life her shirt up so he got a look at her side. Her whole left ribcage and below was covered in bruises, black and purple and yellow, the rainbow pressed into her side with drunken hatred.

"Don't worry about it Cato," she said briskly, pulling her shirt back down, "It's no big deal. I'll just go home, and pretend I never got the letter-" Cato cut her off, "How long has this been happening Clove?" Clove sighed. There was a tone of urgency and concern in Cato's voice that compelled her to spill, "Ever since mum died. Eight years."

"Oh Clove," Cato carefully enveloped her in his arms, trying to avoid the many sore spots that covered her body. Clove couldn't hold it in forever, and eventually a tear escaped her long lashes, running down her cheek. And as it did, a layer of expertly applied and extraordinarily subtle makeup washed away, and there was a streak of her face that wasn't its usual smooth brown, but as dark as splotchy as her battered side.

x x x

**Peacekeeper Report - ****Strictly Confidential**

At 5:42pm peacekeepers were alerted by residents of Academy Lane, (who wish to remain unnamed,) with a complaint of screams and yells coming from the residence of their neighbours: Mark Blaze (father) and Clove Blaze (daughter.) This is not the first report of such noises, and nothing has been done about them in the past on the orders of Head Peacekeeper Thompson.

At 5:59pm peacekeepers were called once more, this time by Cato Woods from the Blaze residence. He explained that Mark Blaze was found unconscious on the floor of his kitchen, and that Clove Blaze was in high distress. Mark Blaze has been transported to hospital with severe head injury and minor injuries to his arms and torso.

Cato Woods and Clove Blaze, who say they found him that way when they returned to the Blaze residence after attending the Academy for their usual school day, have denied knowing anything about the yells previously reported and insist that they were not at home during that time. It is unknown who attacked Mr Blaze, who has been reported by his daughter Clove Blaze as an abusive father.

Cato Woods will be kept in for further questioning, with his history of emotional and violence issues. Clove Blaze has been let go on account of her high distress over her father's attack and her demonstrated vulnerability in the relationship.

Also under suspicion and taken in for questioning is Kristos Hampton, (neighbour.)

x x x

"You knocked out my dad," Clove said in an even tone, finally calmed down after her previous hysteria, which was followed by severe shaking of both her body and voice. "I did," Cato said awkwardly, his thigh pressed up against Clove's as they sat on the edge of her bed.

"You probably saved my life," Clove stated in her robotic tone. "He was drunk, he might have killed you," Cato supplied the information while Clove sat there, trying to take it all in.

"My dad is in a stable condition," Clove wasn't sure if this was good or bad. She didn't want her dad back to terrorise her, but being an orphan was fraught with the unknown. Clove would never admit it, but even the simplest variations from her daily routine caused her heart to quicken. What would it be like not to come home to the smell of spirits and vomit? What would it be like to have no bruises to hide in the morning? "Your dad will survive," Cato confirmed, "I didn't try to kill him, just tried to protect you."

"When he's back, my claims of abuse will be looked into by the peacekeepers," Clove kept going in her monotone, her brain trying to figure out what was real and what was not. "They will, but they never do much about things like this. Probably fine him and leave him alone," Cato said bitterly, not even bothering to attempt to keep his contemptuous tone hidden.

"So, things will go back to normal, me and him? Nothing will change?" Cato looked at Clove with sympathy, yet respect. He knew that no matter how shocked she was, she hated being pitied. And he hated pitying her. The duo worked best as equals. "Things will change," he said in a definite tone, "I won't let him hurt you anymore. You're already capable of kicking his worthless butt, except you don't, because in your mind you're still powerless in comparison to your dad. He was bigger and stronger and meaner than you in the start, so that's how you continue to see it. I know that we're stronger than him, and I can help you Clove. You don't have to wear the makeup anymore."

No-one was as surprised as Clove herself when she heard her body sigh in relief and slump as some of the anxiety left her. "Maybe change could be alright, couldn't it Cato?"

**I'm sorry that took so long to update, I have been suffering from severe writer's block, and having several assignments due and a piano exam this week haven't helped much. Its thanks to my friend that I got this written down at all, so thanks Lollie, if you're reading this. Other than that, I don't have much to say, except the usual: thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed and review please :) -L**


	17. Princesses

She has a lot of enemies in her time.

Some of them are real, some aren't.

When she is young, her enemies are evil dragons, power hungry monarchs, wicked witches and occasionally her siblings. She is never the princess, she fights her 'baddies' without a prince, and is proud. She isn't the princess type.

Her enemies change, and so does she. School becomes one. The bullies they called trainers became another. Boys who thought the world revolved around them, Cato Woods for instance. She has lots of enemies.

One day, she begins to think differently. The little girl grows up. It is no longer other people that trouble her. It is herself. Mirrors. She hates mirrors. She'll look in the mirror, her eyes drawn to it strangely, like nails to a magnet. And when she looks in the mirror, she begins to list things. Nose, chin, stomach, legs, hair. List the things she hates about herself. Mirrors become her enemy. She is just yet to figure out if this enemy was real, or if it isn't.

Her friends grow too, and they start to talk about these things. Compare their lists. Moan about how fat they are. One night, at her friend's house, her dad hears them talking. "Don't talk about that Clove. You're beautiful, don't ever change." She smiles sweetly, "I won't, Mr King."

She wakes up early. Starts some low-fat yogurt for breakfast. Feels bad about it, and stops eating. Goes to training, pretends that she isn't hungry. Tries to concentrate in class. Comes home and goes for a run. Tells herself she isn't hungry. Onto the scales. 51kg. Go on the computer, calculate her BMI. She is in the healthy weight range, it says. But she isn't happy. Scales join the enemy list.

"Damn I forgot my lunch!" "I was so rushed this morning, I didn't even have time for breakfast!" "I fell asleep really early last night, I didn't get any dinner!" Clove becomes a good liar, the lies slipping off her tongue like water over rapids. Soon the rapids turn to waterfalls, waterfalls of lies.

Her friends turn into enemies. Annabel has such nice legs, why doesn't she have them? If Annabel forgets her lunch, then Clove doesn't eat hers. Rebecca doesn't eat any pizza at the party, she wants to be skinnier than her, is what Clove thinks. So Clove doesn't eat either.

Her friends notice this, they were always going to. While they aren't as hard pressed on being thin as Clove is, they too have their insecurities. And watching Clove exercise and skip meals makes them feel fat by comparison. In hurting herself, Clove will be the end of the friendship within her little group.

She doesn't eat much anymore. Avocado for breakfast. Doesn't eat any more carbohydrates. Runs too far, but still feels like she hasn't worked herself hard enough. She hates being her own enemy. Once she was proud to be the tomboy, the fearless one who fights her own enemies. But now she wants to be a princess. Feel beautiful, like a princess. If a prince is going to sweep her into his arms, forty-two kilos is far too heavy. Why are they always supermodel gorgeous and slim waisted on TV? Is there such thing as an ugly actress? She feels surrounded, suffocated by the slim portion of the world that make her feel ugly. Feel worthless.

Cato isn't her enemy any more. She's his friend, but it's not what she really wants. In fact, she wants him to notice her as something else. She wants him to love her, and think she is beautiful. She has never been kissed, and has felt the ugly one for too long.

Ugly isn't a nice word. F-A-T. Fat isn't a nice word either. They sound bad in her mouth. U-G-L-Y. You're ugly. You're fat. They're not nice words.

During the day, there are golden moments when she forgets about herself. When she's not looking at herself, not even thinking about herself, not watching TV with those flawless actresses or flicking through magazines with stick thin models. When she's reading. When she's writing. Throwing her precious knives, watching them sink one by one into the targets with their satisfying thunk.

These precious, golden moments begin to fade, like a sunset that slips away; no matter how hard you wish for it to stay with you just a little longer. She feels as though she is living for those moments of blissfulness, when she is happy. Because looking at herself, she is never happy. And it is when she is happy that she is alive.

"You are beautiful." Those three words could save Clove. But she doesn't have anyone to tell her that, to turn her life around. Her parents fight and they drink. They are never home. Her aunty comes to look after her, but is too scared to say anything, as she hardly knows the angsty teenager who is her niece.

"You have to eat Clove." "Clove, you're underweight." "This is serious Clove." "You ran how far?" People at school start to notice. Clove wants to change. But every time she looks in that mirror, the only thing she wants to change is how she looks.

The suffocating feeling of feeling ugly is possibly the worst in the world. Clove cries a lot. She wants to change, but all her drive disappears the moment she looks at herself. Eventually a psychologist joins the chorus of voices begging her to change. And she wants to. She just doesn't know how.

She walks along the street one day. The house is full of anger, anger that has been bottled up by her parents and aunt, anger that is bursting forth like steam from a kettle. She wants to get away. She sees a girl, not fat, not skinny. Not pretty, not ugly. Just plain, looking in a shop window, at a poster of a model in a tight strappy dress and ridiculously high heels. The girl sucks her stomach in experimentally, tracing it's outline with her fingers. "Don't do it," Clove says to the girl, who turns and stares. Stares at the sharp bones poking out of Clove's back, her face, her stick-like legs. Clove isn't beautiful.

Clove swallows, searching for those words, and finding them, resting on the tip of her tongue. They come out easily, more so than she would have imagined, "You are beautiful."

Clove thinks she is cured after that. Thinks that she's overcome such a hurdle, that eating again will be easy. But it isn't. It isn't about being skinny anymore, Clove realises, as she sees her real reflection for the first time in almost a year, the harsh skeleton that she has become. It was about punishing herself. And she just can't stop. The sweet aches and screams of her body are addictive, she craves the pain and the anguish. Clove isn't a very happy girl.

"I think I win that round Blaze," Cato smirks as he easily overpowers the girl who is now about a quarter of his size, and all skin and bones. She used to be able to beat him, she remembers it vividly. She used to smile back then, and he used to smile back at her.

_He used to smile back at her._

It finally hits Clove in all her madness and hysteria: Cato doesn't want a princess who he can sweep up and carry away. He doesn't want this skeleton, this weak imitation of what used to be a girl. She goes home and cooks herself some pancakes, ignoring the droning shouts from upstairs. Today, she can deal with the fighting. Today is the day she becomes Clove once more.

And when she sits down next to him in the mess hall the next day and shovels food into her mouth, Cato looks at her and smiles a smile that provokes only one reaction in her: a smile in return. He grips her hand under the table, smiling as he whispers into her ear, "Welcome back beautiful."

**I actually wrote this a while ago, and then my friend read and it said I ****HAD**** to publish it so I clato-ised it a little and this is the result. Hope you enjoy :) -L**


	18. Temptations

_But he headed out on Sunday, said he'd come home Monday_

_I stayed up waitin', anticipatin' and pacin' but he was_

_Chasing paper_

_"Caught up in the game" that was the last I heard_

_I will love you till the end of time_

_I would wait a million years_

_Promise you'll remember that you're mine_

_Baby can you see through the tears?_

_Love you more_

_Than those bitches before_

_Say you'll remember, oh baby, say you'll remember_

_I will love you till the end of time_

_You went out every night_

_And baby that's alright_

_I told you that no matter what you did I'd be by your side_

_Cause Ima ride or die_

_Whether you fail or fly_

_Well shit, at least you tried._

_But when you walked out that door, a piece of me died_

_I told you I wanted more-but that not what I had in mind_

_I just want it like before_

_We were dancin' all night_

_Then they took you away- stole you out of my life_

_You just need to remember…_

_-Blue Jeans, Lana Del Rey_

"I didn't know you could sing." Clove's head whipped around, her heart beating, her eyes wildly scared. Who was watching her? Where were they? The wild-eyed girl had thought herself alone, finally alone, in the embracing darkness. How long had she been watched?

"Who's there?" her voice shook with fear and suppressed tears, "Why are you here?" "You don't even recognise my voice? I'm offended," the lights were flicked on and Clove shielded her eyes, only opening them once they had adjusted. Cato stood in his rooms with his arms folded an a look of concern on his face, "What's wrong with some lights? You're not a vampire."

If anything else had been going on, Clove might have made a joke, "You don't know that," or, "Am I sparkling?" but she remained mundanely and rather disconcertingly silent. "I heard you talking to Enobaria," Clove said softly, finally breaking the stony silence. Cato's face fell, "I guess that saves me telling you."

"So you're going to do it?" Clove asked stonily, "The games are changing you already." "Of course I'm going to do it," Cato said agitatedly, "But only to help you. If I've got plenty of sponsors in the arena, I'll be able to give you a hand if you need it. Enobaria can split the money if she wants, mine could go to you."

Clove scowled, "I don't want your charity, I'll get all the sponsors I need without a sex tape." Cato looked hurt, "It wasn't my idea. I'll get plenty of sponsors either way, to be honest, I think Cashmere just wants sponsors for Glimmer…"

"And you willingly obliged to help her out." Clove said venomously, stinging Cato with her words. "I thought you said you heard the conversation Clove, then you'd know Enobaria's making me…" Clove snorted, cutting Cato off, "Oh, Enobaria's _making _you have sex with Glimmer, is she? Funny how she can do that, but can't make you attend dinner."

Cato didn't know what to say, and stood there with his head hung ashamedly, while Clove began to unplait her long black hair, which fell down her back like a splash of ink, her face looking quite calm now that her outburst was over. "I'm sorry Clove," Cato's voice cracked, "I just wanted to help us, just wanted to get home. Please, don't hate me." Clove looked up at him with piercing eyes, trying to detect deceit, "Do you still love me?"

Cato nodded fervently as his tongue stumbled over the words, unable to speak fast enough to assure her of his love for her, "Of course I love you Clove. Forever and always. This doesn't mean anything." "Okay," hardly any sound came out, but Cato could tell that he had finally regained Clove's trust. "Don't get caught up in the game Cato," Clove reached out and touched his face, "I'll be waiting for you. I'll be anxious, I'll be pacing and I'll be worried. But I'll wait forever. I'll love you, always, always, always."

Cato gulped, "Thank you Clove," he barely whispered, and didn't need to say anything. Clove wrapped him up in her arms, and understood that he was scared too. Maybe he was scared he would get caught up in the games, become unfaithful and lust for Glimmer. Maybe he was scared that Clove would dump him.

"Don't forget me Cato. Don't forget who you are." As Cato began to walk out the door, he recognised Clove's advice as not only being useful for the night to follow, but for the rest of his life. If he was getting so worked up about what one night of unfaithfulness could do to him, what would effects would the arena have on him? The temptation would be of a very different sort, but would be strong. To kill everyone, to destroy everything and lose himself in the violence and will to live, getting caught up in the games would be so terribly easy to do…

"Good night Cato," Clove said gently, beginning to undress and prepare for bed. He turned around and seized her, clutching her to his chest, and kissed her hard on the lips, "I'll spend the whole time wishing it was you Clove," he whispered roughly, before slipping out of the door and into the night.

**Well that was very, very, very strange and quite short if you take out this and the song lyrics. I got requested by a friend to write something on this, and I'm sorry to say Fi, but I think I really stuffed that up. Anyway, I have gotten some people to read it and they don't seem to hate it, so I thought it wouldn't be a complete waste of time to post this. Please review, I haven't gotten one in ages and I'm wondering if I'm doing something wrong. PLEASE LET ME KNOW! Oh damn, now I sound desperate... anyway, thanks for reading! -L**


	19. Dares

The Careers could kill you in seconds. Glimmer knew the story of every tribute that had made it into the top eight of the past seventy-three Hunger Games, and had analysed their tactics, before attempting to master them. Marvel hadn't missed a target with his spear since he was eleven. Clove knew one thousand ways to slaughter you with only a knife. Cato had been taking on and defeating trainers since he was thirteen, and had the lowest odds of any tribute in the past twelve years. They were masters of weaponry and tactics, killers as of the bloodbath, evil gleamed in their eyes. But despite their professionalism, nothing could change the fact that they were teenagers, and in some ways, painfully immature. It was inevitable that some strange happenings were going to go on within their alliance.

They were hunting Katniss or 'Fire Bitch' as Clove had christened her, and to put it simply, not everyone was getting along.

"Ow!" Glimmer squealed as her head hit an overhanging branch, and she jumped up and down with pain, her hands scrunched into fists, "Ow, ow, OW!" Cato smirked, "Real smooth Glim." "Lay off her Cato," Marvel sighed, brushing a branch out of his face, not noticing it  
flip back and hit Clove in the face. "Watch it," she hissed dangerously, and continued to trample plants with dangerous intensity.

It was several hours later, after much snapping, sarcasm and dumb blonde jokes directed at Glimmer, the four fearsome tributes gave up on finding her that day and set up camp. The arena was bitter cold at night, and they sat around their fire, huddled in their jackets, holding their hands over the fire, or trying in vain to keep them warm in their pockets.

"I'm freezing," Glimmer groaned, "Would it kill them to warm it up a little?" Clove smirked, "Yeah, keep complaining princess. I agree completely, the arena should definitely cater perfectly to your needs. It's not like it's meant to be torturous and _kill us_." Cato laughed at the look on Glimmer's face, "Clove fights stupidity with sarcasm," he informed her in a voice that sounded much cheerier than it had previously.

Glimmer looked to Marvel for support, she knew she wouldn't get any out of the smirking District 2 tributes, who seemed to think themselves  
superior to the two 'softies' from District 1. Marvel bit back a laugh and put on a concerned face for Glimmer's benefit, then fished inside the backpack until he found a sleeping bag, which he draped around Glimmer's shoulders.

"It's not that cold," Clove said loftily, watching Glimmer with a disdainful gaze as she wrapped the sleeping bag around her tightly. Cato smiled at his district partner, they found escape from the stress of the arena in taunting their allies, "They don't raise them very tough in District 1." Glimmer and Marvel shared a look of mutual loathing for the duo that sat across the fire from them. There was a long silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire, but Marvel, who never seemed to stop talking for long, wasn't ashamed be the first to rekindle conversation, "I know we are meant to be fighting for our lives and everything, but I am bored out of my mind."

Clove opened her mouth, no doubt to give him a taste of her venomous sarcasm, but Cato lay a hand on her thigh, making sure Glimmer and Marvel couldn't see, effectively cutting her off. Then he opened his mouth and began to speak himself, "Well, we should do something about that, shouldn't we?" Glimmer looked at him warily, "Like?"

A small smile worked itself across Cato's face, "Like a game?" Marvel grinned, "I'd suggest a drinking game, but I don't think our mentors would be happy to fund that." Clove smiled, for possibly the first time in the entire games, except for when she and Cato had their golden moments alone, "I would beat you." "Yeah right," Marvel smirked.

"Well geniuses," Glimmer broke the silence, "We don't have any alcohol, and so we'll never figure any of that. How about we play truth or dare?" The boys agreed, and all heads turned to Clove, sprawled easily by the fire, looking directly into Glimmer's eyes. On one hand, she could challenge Glimmer, disagree once more, or she could accept, and agree with the boys. "Sure," she shrugged easily and happily, lounging by the fire, "We can spin… the stick."

Cato snickered, "The stick it is." Marvel was the first to snatch it up with his long arms, and he spun it carefully. It spun quickly, finally  
coming to rest on Cato. "Dun, dun, dunnnnnnn," Glimmer's face broke into an eager smile, looking rather evil, illuminated in the firelight.  
"Cato Woods, leader of the career pack, truth or dare?"

Cato smirked, "What do you think Sparkles? D-A-R-E." "If I ever get our of here, I'm gonna kill my stylist," Marvel grumbled, "Stupid nickname. Anyway Cato, well done on spelling dare correctly, I was worried for a moment there…" Cato scowled, "I'm not freaking illiterate, now get on with it."

"Kiss Clove!" Marvel blurted out, and then bit his lip like he had done something wrong, watching Clove intently, perhaps waiting for a  
knife to be thrown at his head.

Clove rose above it in an almost regal fashion, avoiding the mingled looks of fear and excitement on the faces of the District 1 tributes, and looked straight into Cato's eyes. "I think I could manage," Cato said to Marvel in an offhand voice. Clove looked at him, her face pretty much saying, "And they haven't figured it out yet?" but the duo from District 1 were really just respecting their allies privacy. They knew what it was like to hide love. Marvel's dare to Cato had been a test, to see how he would handle the undoubtable pressure.

Clove smiled as Cato moved towards her, and snaked her arm around his neck as he pressed his lips to hers. After the brief kiss, the two exchanged a small smile of the eyes, but not the mouth, then gave a perfectly synchronised and expectant glance in the direction  
of the two District 1 tributes, "My turn," grinned Cato, picking up the stick with mischief alight in his eyes.

None of them got much sleep that night.

**I have been stopping and starting that one for AGES AND AGES so I'm really happy to get it done and out of the way. I hope it was good, I really had no idea where any of it was going until the end, but I hope that doesn't bother you. Review if you have anything to say, and either way, thanks for reading! -L**


	20. PLEASE READ THIS!

**Last chapter I received a review telling me to write a second part to the previous chapter, with more truths and dares. I love this idea except for one thing: I can't think of any more truths or dares. If you guys review and give me enough ideas to continue the chapter I will, otherwise I am afraid I won't be able to think of any suitable ideas. THANK YOU :) -L**


	21. Pressure

Clove never expected the arena to be the way it was. The blood and guts? Yes. The constant pressure? Not at all. Not even a little bit. She couldn't sleep, couldn't do anything without someone watching her carefully, and that thought terrified her.

Back home at the training centre, everyone went through a lot of pain and bullying, but it was immeasurably better than this. The humiliation and physical pain was upfront, and there was nothing Clove couldn't understand. She knew she was punched because she was small, teased because she was different, backstabbed and betrayed because she was good at what she did. Everyone wanted to get a hand over Clove, but whatever means they could.

Well, Clove thought wryly, I wonder how they'd deal with this.

It was as though she had been pretending her whole life, and had now stepped into the real world. No amount of training could have prepared her for any of this, dressing up doesn't change who you are. It doesn't put you in their shoes, unless you were talking literally, of  
course.

Everyone was just waiting for her to break down, she could feel it. It was as though her mentors, the viewers in the Capitol, her family, her allies, everyone really, was just piling things up on her back, waiting for her locked knees to give way and for her to slump in defeat.

She couldn't act on her feelings for Cato without being called weak for falling in love. Love isn't weakness, she wanted to scream to them, love is life! And wasn't the whole point in living to be happy? Not that that was a District 2 philosophy. No, that had come directly from Clove's stash of banned books under her bed. If anyone had caught her with those, asides from Cato of course, she would have been whipped within an inch of her life. Well, probably not, as she had been District 2's hope for victory. They couldn't afford to damage their prize  
specimen.

She couldn't be friendly with her fellow Careers without being called dumb. It surely wasn't a bad thing to appreciate your District 1 allies for  
their solid, human, comforting presence? But no, that was stupid. Clove rolled her eyes, it wasn't as though she was planning on giving her life for them or anything stupid like that. She wasn't going to commit suicide over their imminent deaths. She wouldn't even go that far with Cato! Well, probably not. That she couldn't quite guarantee.

But really, she might be a bit depressed when Marvel and Glimmer passed on, but Clove supposed the academy didn't approve of any empathy, or pity, or compassion, or tears. Definitely not tears. So making friends with the due from District 1was off the list too.

She couldn't admit that she missed her sisters and wanted to go home. She would be called silly, sentimental, childish even. But really, who wouldn't want to leave? The arena was hardly heaven. It hardly scratched the surface on hell either, Clove smirked as she thought of her unfunny and distinctly Clove-ish humour.

But of course, everyone thought it was the duty of a Career to have the time of their life in the arena, killing people with a smile on their faces, provided in was a sufficiently evil smile. She couldn't admit that she hated killing people. That was the pinnacle of weakness, and the academy hated nothing as much as they hated compassion. To not want to kill was apparently insane, but Clove had once pointed out that one's normal instinct wasn't to slaughter everyone they saw. That earned her two-hundred push-ups and twenty laps of the training complex.

It would be pretty accurate to say that Clove was the fastest and the strongest because of all these punishments she received.

Neither the academy, the viewers in the Capitol, her father, or the general population of District 2 cared if she had nightmares and PTSD for eternity after the horrors she went through in the arena. Why should they? Unless Clove developed a habit of screaming in her sleep, that was, the neighbours would definitely have a thing or two to say about that.

Clove was their most prized possession, and they would be cheering for her and Cato all through the games, and had definitely been intent on training them beforehand.

But after?

Clove's achievement would be summed up with another name added to the plaque mounted on the academy wall, another trophy in their precious glass case. Another house in the Victor's village constructed, reason to boast to the other districts, "We've had so many victors, we've run out of houses."

But Clove was worth nothing any more. She couldn't win again. She couldn't contribute to their pride in any other ways. Best to lock her up in an expensive house, give her plenty of money, and hope she keeps quiet about the truths of the arena. How bad it really is. If Clove's detailed mental description of the arena were ever to get out, there'd never be another volunteer.

Couldn't let that happen.

Kids willing to go fight to the death were prized, rather than pitied. What kind of society was that?

Clove tried to combat this constant paranoia and pressure by keeping a constant vigil, as though actually hoping to stare down her many adversaries and judges. Eyes open Clove, eyes open. After days of insomnia and even higher levels of stress than usual, Clove gave up.

"You know Cato," she said as they hiked through the forest, "This really sucks. Like, I hate it in this arena. This is all shit," then pulled im in closely and kissed him passionately. And while a million pairs of eyes ere staring at Clove at that moment in utter disapproval, that was when she became free.

**Obviously, that wasn't a continuation of chapter 19, as no-one reviewed with any dares/truths, and my brain was as stubborn as ever. Hope it was an okay chapter, I actually have no idea how this will be perceived. Feel free to give me a review with your opinion! You guys are all brilliant, thanks for reading! -L**


	22. IMPORTANT Author's Note

**Hello readers!**

**I know that this story has no particular start nor end, the one-shots aren't joined in any way and you could mix them up into whatever order you like. However, I am really busy with other stories and stuff (hence the long time to update,) so I have decided to end this one. Not just with this boring author's note though.**

**What I am planning to do is this: I am going to write three more one-shots, all wrapping up Clato in three scenarios they could have ended up in. One is about both of them dying, canon to the book, one is about both of them making it home and their following relationship and I am fairly sure that for the last one I will have Clove die and Cato live, as I have already done one the other way around.**

**If you have any ideas for a one-shot with closure, feel free to let me know, as I am not 100% sure about that last idea.**

**Thank you all for reading! **


	23. Death

_Come and take a walk on the wild side,_  
_Let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain,_  
_You like your girls insane,_  
_Choose your last words, this is the last time,_  
_'Cause you and I,_  
_We were born to die._

_-Born To Die, Lana Del Rey_

Some people might say that Cato and Clove were born in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Born into families who were always going to press them to volunteer in the Hunger Games, where the chances of losing your life were far too high. But really, if you think about it, there was no better place for two such people.

Maybe it was the way they were raised, or maybe it was in their blood. I am talking about their killing instinct. A killing instinct usually assures your own death, especially in District 2. These two children were no exception to that rule.

When Cato walked through the academy doors for the first time, he wondered whether it would be his end. He decided it wouldn't be, he was far too tough and strong for that, and so he kept on walking, and never looked back. When Clove walked through those iron gates the same question flashed through her mind. Clove was a smart child, even at the young age of five, and seemed to have a natural knowledge for deep and philosophical questions, especially ones concerning her own demise. Clove knew it would be the end of her, but she too kept on walking, because she knew that in her heart, for a monster like her, there was no better way to die. She would go in a fight or not at all, and the idea of an eternally living Clove was not only terrifying, but also unrealistic.

Cato was fast to adapt to the ways of the academy. Maybe it was because that was how he was raised, with a trainer for a father, or maybe that's because his mind was highly susceptible to words, and Clove would accuse him of several times in the future. Cato hated to think of himself as gullible, but Clove insisted he was the epitome of it, though he didn't appear trusting in the least from the outside. She said his brain was susceptible to subliminal messages, which always pissed him off, especially before he knew what subliminal meant. Clove loved flaunting her developed vocabulary.

Cato and Clove were born to be competitors against each other. Same age, same high class victor ranking families, and the same ranking their respective genders, which was of course, the top spot. Cato and Clove were never anything but the best. And so, it was expected by everyone, and them most of all, that they would be victors one day.

There was only one catch. They were the same age. They would both be eighteen, the prime volunteering age, at the same time. In the same year. They would be competitors of the more deadly kind. Pinning to the training room floor and drawing ruby red blood from intricate cuts in Clove's case, and the most jagged and emotionally charged cuts in Cato's case. They would be fighting to kill, and though they both yearned for blood, they didn't want the other to die. Their competition was legendary not only to those watching the intense and emotionally charged battles, but to them.

Cato needed Clove and her long words and her wicked smile and haunting grey eyes and her long-fingered hands which could both draw blood from his and caress him. He needed the fight and the tears, he needed her energy. No-one in the whole of District 2 challenged him in so many ways, and won a lot of the time too.

Clove needed Cato's strong presence, and his hard hits and cuts which toughened her to the point of mild insanity. She craved the pain, and Cato was the only one who could give it to her. He was the only one, and she didn't want him, and the challenge, to go away. Killing him would be the ultimate triumph, but everything afterwards would be empty.

What was left for you after you conquered the world?

Just death, death and hell. And she didn't want to die at any hand but Cato's. She didn't want to die at the hands if a weak person, or of natural causes. She was above all those things, but to die losing the ultimate competition, well, it would be fitting. Cato was the only correct end to her ever winding circle of life. If anyone were to break that chain, it would be Cato. Any other form of death would simply be throwing the chain away where no-one could ever find it. She didn't want to be lost. She wanted to be broken.

And so, craving a death at the hands of the other, the two decided to volunteer together. The one to kill the other would win the competition, but never feel the closure of being truly broken. One would be destroyed, and one would be the destroyer. The two pieces fit together perfectly.

Cato and Clove.

And so were the proud tributes, representing District 2 in what were destined to be the most fateful Hunger Games ever. If only they lived to see the end.

Clove was the first to die out of the unbeatable duo. She got too caught up in killing the girl who she hated so much, wanting to draw blood as slowly, painfully and artistically as possible. Clove had always fancied herself a bit of an artist.

But a boy, strong indeed, but never imagined to be a threat by Clove, caught her off her guard, and was fast to kill her. A rock to the head could kill even Clove, no matter how determined to stay alive she was. And as she slipped away and Cato knelt beside her, begging her to stay alive, she asked him to kill her, and break the chain.

But Cato shook his head, "You're dead already Clove."

Cato was the lucky one. He didn't realise it, thinking that now Clove was gone, he would be lost forever, and never truly be destroyed. He would be lost and forgotten. The fight would never be resolved.

But it was.

When Cato saw the wolf with Clove's grey eyes and jet black hair, he welcomed the pain. It took a long time, but eventually the wolf-Clove won. Cato died, and though the wolf was just a muttation with some of Clove's DNA injected into it, that was enough for Cato.

If you believe yourself to be broken, then broken you will be.

**Well there is the first part of my few concluding chapters. Next chapter will be a closure on what would have happened if they won the games together. Looking forward to writing it! -L**


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